When He took up His old, rugged cross, about to shed His life blood for you and for me, He let them pierce His side, His hands and His feet, before bowing down for a crown of thorns to be placed on His head. It was at that moment that His suffering began, but one he bore gladly.

There, on Calvary’s Cross was Mary’s little boy, giving His life for the same souls about to take His. How excruciating for her to have watched the little boy she had cradled in her arms, let out his final breaths while begging for forgiveness for us. Us. Us who were created in the image of His father. Us, responsible for taking the life of His only son. Us, who betrayed Jesus, and in turn, betrayed our God. Us, who have since turned this world upside down by discarding His commandments, and rather, delighting in life’s pleasures. Us, who have chosen wealth and power over the heavenly riches that was promised to us with that death on Calvary’s Cross. Us, who no longer know how to love one another, how to forgive each other, and how to discard our wicked pride. Us, who struggle with keeping the good, and discarding the bad. Us, who are served by evil, who serve the darkness. Us, who are burying the last bit of humanness and empathy that is left inside of us, and no longer care to make excuses for our behavior, our hatred, our longing for inflicting pain on others, creating wars or settling for world dominance. Us, who have become lost in a noisy world, and can no longer see beyond the clutter in our lives, or the clatter in our hearts and minds. Us, who might feel forgotten, discarded, rejected, alone and unloved. Perhaps, we can’t hear Him when He speaks or feel Him when He nudges us, because we simply don’t care to.

That death on Calvary’s Cross was planned and carried out perfectly, so that we can someday live eternally with our Father in Heaven. So that we can forgive those who hurt us, or seek to destroy us, and in turn, receive salvation for our own sins. Perhaps, we can learn once more to say a prayer for the lost, the broken, the enslaved, the unborn, the sinners and even the saints. Maybe, we can pray for those who live in fear, anger and resentment. When we’ve learned to pray for others again, perhaps we can say silent prayers for those that are running from Him and take their hand to show them the way home again.

That death on Calvary’s Cross was the darkest sunset the world has ever known, and when, only a few days later He had risen, He taught us about Heaven. He proved that it was real, that God was real, and that we have no need to fear death. We have no need to mourn those we lose here, because they are there, with Him. That’s where we’ll find Him again. Free from sin. Free from the darkness of this world. Free from the hatred that is slowly seeping into souls. Free from fear. Free from hurt and suffering. Free from pain and anger. Free from shattered hearts and broken spirits. Until then, we find Him in our silence, in our hearts, and in the hearts of others.

We find Him in our commitment to Him, in the eyes of our loved ones, and in the faces of our children. We find Him in the littlest of things, and we find Him in the big things. We find Him in the air we breathe, the wind, the rain, the storms, the oceans, the mountains, the birds and all His creations. We find Him in us. We find Him in love. Compassion. Forgiveness. Empathy. Goodness. We find Him in it all.

All because of that death on Calvary’s Cross.

He walks slowly through the doors of the house they had lovingly made a home in, dreamed in, brought babies home to, held family gatherings in, spent many Christmas seasons in, and made memories in. He looks around and knows that with every sunrise, and each sunset, someone like him, a father and husband, is facing his greatest fear. He doesn’t know whose home will be targeted and invaded by strangers, and bring with them a kind of evil and darkness the world can’t even begin to imagine. For a moment, he can’t breathe. What if it’s him? What if it’s their home tonight? What if it’s his wife and children? What if?

He does everything right. He does all he can to avoid coming face to face with the devil himself. Just as the sun is about to set, lockdown begins. All gates are locked up, in and around his home. Each window is checked, and each burglar bar scrutinized. Every single door closed and locked, curtains are drawn, guard dogs are placed in patrol areas, alarm systems are activated, and indoor security gates are fortified.

Dinner is made early, but by then, nobody really has an appetite anymore. They can hardly catch a breath as they consider the night that is upon them. A long, dark night where every breath is a gasp, almost as though he is breathing through a straw. Each sound, each shadow, and each thump takes a farmer’s breath away. He tries not to show his fear. He does his best to calm his family who are looking at him with a debilitating fear, and horror in their eyes. He forces a smile and whispers, “it’s nothing.” He tells them it’s the wind, or a sudden gust. He tells them it could be the dogs playing outside. He says that perhaps, it’s a wild animal, or a bird looking for food. But, he isn’t sure, so he takes in another breath and prays with his eyes open. He doesn’t want his family to see, or to know how hard it is to breathe, and how desperately he is praying.

His life and that of his family’s is demoralizing. It is unnatural. It is sickening. It is smothering.

He knows that somewhere, someone else did everything right, just as he did. Someone else’s turn has come, and a father, husband or son is facing his greatest fear. He knows that the scenes that plays out in his mind night after night, can hardly compare to what a family is facing at that very moment. He bows his head when he thinks of what they will endure, before they are mercifully killed, all before sunrise. He knows that if it isn’t their turn tonight, it will be someone else’s.

He knows that there is a little boy running down the passage trying to hide from the monster chasing him. He knows that there might be a little girl screaming for her daddy to save her from a gang ready to commit unspeakable acts on her. He knows that her mother is dying slowly while listening to the screams of her children, desperately negotiating for their lives, offering hers up instead. She is quiet as they perform torturous rituals on her. She doesn’t fight back, frantic to save her children. She hears their cries. She sees the look of horror on her husband’s face. Her eyes try to let him know that she’s okay. She will survive, and so will they all. But she knows, not one of them will live to see another sunrise.

He knows that when they’ve had their fill, when their lust for blood, fear and screams are satisfied, usually just before the sun is about to come up, these barbarians will slowly kill her children, as she watches the life drain from them. He knows that before they gasp for that final breath, she is already dead inside. Killing her will be mercy. Killing him will be an act of kindness.

And, when the sun peers through the heavily guarded windows, he sighs. He can breathe again for the first time in hours. He says a silent prayer, and thanks God that it wasn’t their turn. By the time he reaches his fields, he is overwhelmed by guilt that it was someone else’s turn. He is overwhelmed by the fact that it wasn’t theirs, but someone else’s. Again, he struggles to take in a single breath.

He just can’t understand how many more farmers must be tortured and brutally slaughtered before someone says enough. He tries to understand how many white South Africans must still be discovered on their bedroom floor, in a pool of blood, before someone steps up. He plays out scenes of children drowned in boiling water, raped, sodomized, shot or stabbed, and wonders how their lives mean so little to the world.

He searches the news, and when he finds the names of those whose turn came, he hates himself. He hates his country. He hates his lands.

Under the guise of COVID-19, is South Africa the world’s first modern-day concentration camp?

We’ve been here before. Concentration camps are nothing new to the Boers of South Africa. It began in 1899, the trigger to the war being the discovery of diamonds and gold in our Boer states. What began as what was to be a quick and easy defeat by the overconfident and unprepared British, turned into a three-year battle resulting in the British changing leadership and tactics to effectively take control of Boer land. The Boers refused to surrender and under the leadership of generals Louis Botha, Jan Smuts, Christiaan De Wet and Koos De La Rey, surprise attacks against the British, along with quick escapes were underway. The British, realizing that they were losing, set up camps with barbed wire fences, attacked civilian farms, and destroyed crops and livestock as part of their “scorched earth” policy. When the Boers showed no desire to surrender, women and children were forced into these concentration camps, leaving thousands of innocent people dying of hunger and disease. Our history and pictures immortalized in our museums tell of awful conditions, hunger, disease and the surrender of freedom. It was not a fair fight, but the only way the British could cripple the Boer nation.

Because we are white and in South Africa, we are all Boers now. For the past 26 years, we have been attacked by a terrorist government who have embarked on what can only be referred to as “modern-day warfare.” In 1993, the ANC began waging a brand-new war on the Boers by restricting employment, excluding them from the job market by replacing qualified staff with unskilled employees thereby effectively bankrupting almost all governmental institutions such as our power supply establishment, our once profitable and proudly South African Airways, our municipalities and so much more. Slowly and almost unnoticed, the Boers have had to adapt to lower educational standard and the loss of employment. We have had to hand over the majority of our businesses, yet, we are taxed to breaking point. Positions in the public sector have been allocated to ANC comrades, thereby controlling the police and military forces, along with medical staff in public hospitals, resulting in sub-standard treatment. The names of our provinces have been changed, cities and streets were re-named, airport names, only to name but a few, have been adapted to honor terrorists of the past. Private security companies are in the process of being reconstructed so as to disarm officers, as most of South Africa’s privately-owned weapons have been confiscated.

The Afrikaans language has been placed at risk by insisting the language be removed from schools, and is hanging by a thread, one court case at a time. Our Churches, schools, libraries, universities, colleges, monuments and museums are being vandalized on an on-going basis, so as to completely destroy any proof of our past and our pride. Pension funds have been looted. Banks have been looted. State coffers are empty. Greed and corruption have contributed to farm lands being seized without compensation, and while the process seems too lengthy for the beneficiaries, our farmers and families are being murdered. Brutalized. Tortured for hours. Raped. Sodomized. Burnt. Children especially are sadistically killed. Attacks are drawn out for maximum suffering. White families in suburban areas are enduring much of the same. The hatred is evident when the Boer’s killings are called for. Openly. Publicly. For the world to see. The hunger for Boer blood resonates from the top, beginning with the president, right down to the indoctrinated man on the street. Our history and culture has been eradicated, our history re-written.

Then COVID-19 showed up and it was almost like their alleged voodoo magic and spirits of their forefathers have handed them the perfect scenario. A gift from their ancestors. The gods they worship. A sign that they have been given assistance and permission to further cripple the Boer. Overnight, the last of the Boer freedom was taken from us. A modern-day hijacking had taken place right before our eyes. Armed criminal and corrupt police and defense force officers were deployed, allowing “martial law” authority. Areas are patrolled with automatic assault rifles with rounds of live ammunition under the guise of “enforcing law and order.”

Much of the cabinet, including the president, adorns military uniforms when addressing the public, despite their complete lack of military training. Healthy people are quarantined, some placed in so-called “quarantine camps,” living under ghastly conditions. Financial aid and relief is based on B-BBEE laws. Broad-Based Black Economic Empowerment. The operative word, BLACK. There is no aid and no relief for a white man, woman or child. White squatter camps are being raided, and privately-funded or donated food is being confiscated, reinforcing “made-up” regulations that the government alone is permitted to distribute food, thereby, excluding white squatter camps. The inept, and corrupt Minister of Police has banned cigarettes, alcohol, hugging and kissing. Single joggers have been arrested on a beach, while crowds of black South Africans are ignored. Black taxies operate as normal, while fines and threats of arrest are issued to a couple, or a mother and child driving in a car. Clothing is strictly monitored. Certain garments only are allowed to be bought, according to a list issued to shoppers in need of clothing. The impending release of at least 19,000 prisoners, some of which are farm attackers, murderers, rapists and almost all convicted of capital crimes has again, placed the innocent at risk. Minor incidents of people working and trying their utmost to provide for their families, has resulted in their imprisonment, yet, violent criminals are about to be released back onto the streets of South Africa.

Farmers and private neighbourhood-watch officers are prohibited from patrolling the farming communities, thereby effectively handing Boer lives over to attackers.

All this is taking place under the guise of the COVID-19 pandemic.

Is this how modern-day concentration camps are operated? Unnoticed. Stripping our freedom bit by bit. Slow enough not to quite notice the new “plan,” but quick enough to effectively surrender our freedom to the terrorist ANC government, without even knowing it. Soon, pictures of our imprisonment will become the new Boer pictures in the history of the future.

It is not a fair fight now, and the only way the ANC can cripple the Boer nation, if we allow it.

DISCLAIMER : This is not my article, merely my translation. Article originally written in Afrikaans.

AUTHOR : PIETER SWART (Journalist who has attended many such crimes scenes)

“This morning, God must please help me understand how there can be so much cruelty and barbarism in the hearts of those responsible for the farm attack in Bonnievale, Western Cape. Because, I don’t understand it. It paves the way for defenselessness and bitterness, emotions we never asked for.”

Imagine this:

You and your wife are alone at home. A few of your farm workers, who you treat with the greatest care, love and respect, just like you do all your farm laborers, suddenly bursts into your home, and overpowers you.

These are people you know. These are people you’ve had a working relationship with for years. These are the people that are treated exceptionally well, nurtured and care for by you, that they labeled you and your family as “wonderful people.”

Imagine your, and your family’s initial shock when you realize why they are there. Imagine feeling disbelief while feelings of incredulity overwhelm you. You might be thinking along the lines of, “How can it be? These are the people we work with. People we support, and have given a home to. Only last night, did we greet each other before we all made our way to our homes. This can’t be?”

You and your wife are thrown, and pushed around. Assaulted. Fists are flying all around you, and not one misses you or your wife. Your wife starts crying and begging, but all this does, is fuel their anger, and increases their cruelty.

Two attackers are holding you down from behind, while one attacker, the same one you’ve had a conversation with the day before, and the days before that; the one you got on remarkably well with, opens a pocket knife, and stabs you over and over again.

You try to free yourself from their grip, and desperately try to avoid the knife from penetrating your body, but he carries on stabbing you in your chest, your arms, your face …

You don’t feel the pain, but you can see the blood splatter all around you. It’s everywhere. Splatters on your attacker, the same man who greeted you for the night. Splatter on the floor, on the carpet and on the furniture. Your blood.

You are overwhelmed by shock and disbelief, and feel as though this isn’t really happening. Almost as though you are watching it all happen to someone else. Not you. Not your workers. Not your farm. Not your wife.

You are painfully aware of the hysteric screams coming from your wife, but the louder she screams and the more desperate she becomes, the harder they hit her, one blow landing on her face with a revolver. Your wife. You are powerless.

They demand money. Jewelry. Weapons. Someone told them there is a fortune in your safe at home, and they want it!

You open the safe while the blows continue to rain down on you, only to try and explain that there was nothing of much value in that safe. Hoping they would realize there was nothing for them to take, and leave, it has exactly the opposite effect on these attackers. They become increasingly aggressive, and begin shouting. The barbarism and torture increases through their anger.

You hear one shouting, “The money has to be somewhere. You are hiding it from us. We want it!”

The house is ransacked, despite the ongoing torturing and beatings. They find nothing. There is a slight glimmer of hope when you realize they are beginning to understand that there is no treasure chest hidden between the walls of your home. You are slightly relieved, “They can see here is nothing. Thank you, God. Now they will stop. They are going to leave. Finally.”

But, it doesn’t happen that way.

Their hysterics simply made way for something else; a kind of evil you have never known before.

You are your wife are tied to chairs, one across from the other so that you can see each other without any obstruction. Almost as though the evil forces are overtaking any humanity they might have had. “A breeding of evil …” goes through your mind as you watch with surprising clarity.

“I will do anything. You can kill me, please just let my wife go. I beg you. We have always been good to you. Always.”

The response is nothing more than a smirk. “Be quiet, you dog. Today, we will show you who’s boss.”

One attacker walks over to your loved one, your tiny, petite and fragile wife, carrying a kettle filled with boiling water in his hands. Her body trembles as she sobs quietly. She no longer makes a sound. She sits and stares blankly while weeping, tied securely to her chair.

She tries desperately to pull her head away from the kettle, but the boiling water rolls mercilessly over her head. Over her face. In her eyes, and down her cheeks. Her back. Her breasts. It finally forms a pool on her lap where she keeps her legs tightly together.

You can see at once how her face and neck turns bright red, and watch as the skin starts melting from her cheeks and neck.

“Please dear God, this can’t be happening. Please wake me up from this nightmare. Please Lord, it can’t be my wife that is being burnt so heartlessly.”

Then you hear the voices again. As though it rolls through a misty fog and reaches your ears. You hear them laughing …

The money is forgotten. These attackers have taken the attack to a whole new level. A display of power. An orgy of torture and barbaric cruelty.

The attacker is encouraged to go and fetch more boiling water. While he walks away, another one comes closer with a toolbox filled with tools. He takes out a power drill. He turns to his accomplice, and exchanges a few words before they burst out laughing again.

You are now the focus of their attention. Two attackers come closer, and hold your head in a firm grip, while a third takes out the thickest and largest drill bit, and screws it into the power drill. He switches it on, and sets it to “hammer-action.” You can hear it.

They laugh again.

You can’t feel them drilling slowly through the bones of your temple, and through to your eye-socket. All you can feel is the vibration through your head. Through your brain.

You are suddenly aware of your wife’s eyes. They are red, bloodshot and filled with fear and repugnance.

“Don’t look. Don’t look!” You try and mumble to her, but no words come out.

You can now smell how the drill begins burning at your flesh and your skull as it keeps turning and turning …

Pieter Swart – This is a farm attack that took place in Bonnievale where Mr. Tool Wessels was shot and killed outside his home after being tortured for hours. He was dressed only in his underwear. A tie was pulled firmly around his mouth.

His wife Liezel survived the attack. She managed to free herself while the attackers took Tool outside where they continued to torture him, and finally, kill him. She managed to get to her car, and sped away where she was able to get help.

Describing an attack in such detail is horrendous, but I am not sorry. It has to be done. This is how it happens. This isn’t an isolated incident. For 25 years, we’ve heard and read about farm attacks, but the reality of the tortures is never mentioned.

Normal crimes? Hate crimes. Decide for yourself.

It’s 3 am. I am standing in Walmart, looking around me and watching shoppers push their carts through the aisles as though it is mid-morning, late afternoon, anything but 3 am. A woman in front of me is on the phone, explaining to the caller that she’d be home before the baby wakes up. It was the only time she had to get her grocery shopping done. A man and his elderly father are strolling down to the pharmacy. He is apologizing to his father that he works such long hours and that this was the only time he had to get him to pick up his script. And so, it goes on and on. I watched each shopper, and realized that 3 am shopping was convenient, and somewhat normal. I didn’t really need to be there, but I wanted to leave the safety of my home, and see if it truly was normal going to the store at 3 am. Each time someone brushed past me, I shuddered. I know how it must have looked like to them, but I didn’t know how to explain myself. Instead, I smiled and walked away.

Slipping into my car at around 2:40 am, caught me a little off-guard. I couldn’t help but look around me, sure that someone was hiding behind a shrub somewhere, ready to pounce on me. I made a point of holding my breath, so as not to make a sound, but the thumping of my heart echoed into the silence. When I finally reached my car, I slid in, locked the doors, looked around me one more time, and finally exhaled. I made it!

Driving through the streets of a well-lit town, wasn’t as horrifying as I thought it would be. During my drive, I couldn’t help but think back to my home. South Africa. Locked behind steel gates, barbed wire, burglar bars, security systems, in-house security gates, and armed with anything that could be turned into a weapon, there was no guarantee we’d even survive a night imprisoned in our homes, let alone, take a drive to the corner garage. Stealing ten minutes out on the porch for a quick breath of fresh air, or a few drags on a cigarette, was unthinkable.

When I reached Walmart, my heart was thumping again. There were too many cars. Why were there so many cars at that time of the morning? I sat for another ten minutes or so, witnessing shoppers coming and going, normally. At 3 am. Without looking around them. Without fear. Without anxiety. There was nothing at all about them, that could tell me shopping at Walmart at this hour, wasn’t normal.

I didn’t need to be there. What I did need to do, was understand that our lives in South Africa, wasn’t normal. I needed to know that we weren’t exaggerating the conditions we were living in. I needed to understand that our fear is real. I need to admit to myself that our defenses and attempts to safeguard ourselves, would never be enough. I needed to know that there is not one corner in South Africa, that is safe. I wanted to make sure that I, and our people weren’t simply imagining the dread we were going to bed with, and waking up to each morning. I had to prove to myself that I wasn’t amplifying my emotions or fears.

Like other South African scatterlings around the world, we were numb to our murders, to our crime, the violence and the tortures. We became desensitized to the hatred towards our race, our culture and our tribe. We are used to it. It was normal to us. It was how we met each morning. It was how we ended our days. We lived, but we didn’t.

In the first few weeks of arriving in America, I still pushed the dresser against the bedroom door each night. I stacked books between the door handle and the surface of the dresser, so that an intruder or attacker couldn’t turn the handle. I placed a door stopper underneath, and got into bed listening for familiar sounds, in an unfamiliar country. Each time the furnace would kick in, I sat up straight in bed, and listened. Each time the air-conditioner started up, my heart missed more than just a few beats. Cars driving by would force me to my bedroom window, and I would watch until I could no longer see them.

But, 18 months later, even though I am no longer suspicious of what might come in at night, I still get up a few times each night to check the doors, the windows, and the door alarms. I am safe now, I know, but I wasn’t once. Overcoming the fact that houses flow into one another, without walls or fencing to divide, keeping intruders out, was by far the most unnerving experience of my life. How can people live so carelessly, I thought? Watching pet owners walk their dogs at night, made me shudder. Little children walking the streets before and after school, or at Halloween, just made me want to grab mothers, and shake the living daylights out of them. But wait. They know nothing of the fears we live in South Africa. We didn’t always, and that’s where they are now. They are living our “didn’t always.”

I was once a child in South Africa. A safer one. Just like it is now in America, and most other countries. I once walked the streets, daily and often, after dark. I once pedaled my bicycle to school, and into town whenever I could. Our doors were often overlooked, and remained unlocked until morning. Our cars were parked in the streets, the keys still in the ignition. I once lived in a home that didn’t have security, fencing, walls or burglar bars. I grew up in a time when the military, police, and the law was feared. I lived in a time when our president was fair, and applied the law to each South African, irrespective of race, religion or political belief. I lived through tough discipline, education standards that were high, and there was no sympathy for my failures. I lived in a world where I had to earn every penny I earned, and pay every penny asked of me for the home or car I wanted. I lived in a time where pastors and preachers were the closest to God, and I heavily relied on their Biblical wisdom. I lived in a time where teachers were obeyed, feared, admired and respected. They knew everything. I lived with the knowledge that doctors and nurses were the smartest healers in the world, second to God. I lived in my garden, with friends of all races. It was a time when crime never went unpunished, respect was earned, given and received, discipline was feared, education standards were high, health care was superior, and we had pride for our country, our service men and our citizens.

What we are left with now, is a tribe scattered across the world. Some stay. Some leave. Most are angry. Most are bitter. Most have given up, and many have lost hope. We’ve forgotten how we once lived, and how we deserve a country in which we are safe in. A country where our roots matter in. A country we contribute to, and are proud of.

So, while I stroll through Walmart at any given time of any given day, I long for South Africa. I will always check the shelves for ginger beer, Aquafresh, Marmite, ProNutro, Ouma’s, Grandpa powders and biltong. Once in a while, I find home on those shelves, and it brings me back to life again. Perhaps someday, I won’t have to place an order on Amazon, just to have a little bit of South Africa, in my home. As determined as we are to adjust to our new surroundings and adapt to unfamiliar traditions, we can’t help but cling to our culture. We fiercely defend who we are, and where we come from. We feel no shame for who we once were. We have no disgrace in our patriotism, or Christianity. We just don’t fit in anymore.

Like a tight-knit family, we have been orphaned, split-up, and scattered across the world, longing for those like us. I long for the familiarity and safety we once knew. I long for those who sound like me, and speak like me. I listen for them, and once in a while, when I think I hear someone like me, I walk the aisles, in search of that voice, and language. Perhaps, its nothing more than the ghosts of my home, but perhaps someday, the voices will have faces again.

Until then, for those like us who stay behind, we will oppose, fight and let the world know that the devil has found a home in South Africa.

Christmas time. We are all a little more defenseless and a tad-bit crooked at Christmas time. Some of us are crushingly entangled in the cries of despair as they whisper terrifying secrets of sorrow when no-one else wants to hear or wants to see. Despair is heightened at a time that should be replaced with joy and merriment. For some of us, it may seem as though the lights on our Christmas trees callously burns away all that we have been praying for, and as the countdown to the most enchanting time of the year begins, the promise of magic at Christmas begins to fade.

A miraculous time where anything is possible, and everything is imaginable, might now seem implausible, and all that we really want, is to run away from it all, anxious to hide from anything Christmas. Some of us were crushed by the things that have come undone throughout the year; things that we just cannot cast aside now, not even for Christmas. Some of us have tried so many ways to stand up and remain strong, but for the most part of the year, our desperate efforts have been discarded, denied and were just-not-enough. Our storms are so much more tempestuous, and our nightmares are so much more terrifying during Christmas, than ever before. The evil that surrounds us, does not rest. It does not celebrate in the birth of our Christ, and it does not seek to give us peace, even if only for Christmas. Even only to linger for a while in the birth of our Christ. Even only to bend our knees and find the wonder of Jesus.

But at Christmas time, we are all the same. The Christian world is one nation and one tribe. We breathe the same, we cry the same, we laugh the same and we love the same. The wealthy and the poor feel and hurt the same. We fear the same, and we agonize the same. We love the same and we lose the same. We need the same and we dream the same. The Spirit of Christmas does not adapt to who we are or what we do, who we aren’t, or what we don’t do. It does not differentiate between a name or an address. It does not discriminate between refinement or elegance. Christmas miracles are not selective, and it does not hand-pick its beneficiary based on successes or achievements that are of this world.

We are all in line for a miracle. All of us. It may be in the littlest of things, or it may be in our greatest desires. It may come unnoticed and unseen, and it may be an answer to a prayer that didn’t come in the way we thought it would. We are impartially chosen for a little bit of magic, whether we find it in ourselves, or someone else. Perhaps some are chosen to be the giver of a miracle or perhaps, a miracle is out there, chosen just for you, waiting for you to reach out and grab it. But, what we cannot deny is, the joy in any kind of miracle that shows up, whether we are one or we receive one. This year, let’s be Christmas.  

Let’s give of us, even if we can’t give things. Let’s be instead. Let’s be who someone needs. Let’s be an answer to a prayer. Let’s not think this Christmas, let’s just feel. Let’s listen for the messages to our souls. Let’s hear the pleadings above the noises of this world. Let us listen for the things others are not saying. Let’s say thank you for our miracles and blessings, and then, let us say it loud and clear by being someone else’s miracle this Christmas. Let us be a whole lot of different and a truck-load of crooked this year, this Christmas, just this once.

Let’s be the peace in other hearts, and the hope in other’s dreams. Let’s be the strength some have lost, and replace despair with faith. Let’s speak louder, let’s speak firmly even if our voices tremble. Let’s take hands. Let’s hold onto those whose legs buckle beneath them. Let’s fight harder. Let’s pray harder now that it’s hardest to pray. Let’s wipe away the tears. Let’s be braver than we are.

There are those who crawl with blood on their knees; let’s kick away the stones underneath them. There are those whose feet are tired and when they fall, let’s place a pillow there for them to rest on. There are those who run, desperate to escape the hardships of this world, let’s grab firmly onto them so that they can stop for just a moment to take in a deep breath so that they can begin again. There are those who are ashamed of, and desperately mask their failures, let’s seek them out and guide them back to their worth. There are those without love and who are alone, let’s place an arm around them and hold them tightly against us, for just a little longer than is necessary. There are those who are apart from those they long for, let’s listen for their silence and hear their longings. There are those that are so overawed and misplaced, let’s turn on a light for them … they might just need it as they fight their way back into their place in this world. There are those who are cold, let’s light a fire to keep them warm. There are those enslaved by fear, let’s show up for them, and be their courage. Let’s forgive the sinners and let’s imitate the saints.

As we enter the final days of Christmas 2019, I am reminded of all the special men and women that have crossed my path in my lifetime. I value and cherish all of them. I value those of you who have been so enormously loyal and faithful to me as a human, and then, as someone who ‘just wrote another book.’ I am thankful for your messages of support, and I am deeply grateful for the growing numbers of readers who faithfully read my blogs and books.

Thank you all for that.

I am truly and deeply thankful for the women who have become pillars of strength to me, and I am so overwhelmed by their undying support in all that I do. My friends have been invaluable to me throughout this journey. They have truly been my very own miracle, not only at Christmas, but in every moment, that has overwhelmed me. If these warriors have taught me one thing, it is to only ever look down on someone when helping them up. There are so many ways to love so many others. It comes in so many forms and it finds you, it never misses you. It always finds you, even if it comes through the most unexpected places. Miracles are not always things we can see and we can’t always touch it, but we will always feel it.

Be that for someone, this Christmas.

I hope that you all have a very, merry and safe Christmas this year. I wish you all an abundance of love, health, happiness, warmth, safety and togetherness. I pray that you can find His hand all around you, and I walk in faith that you may see the shift about to come into your life. May Christmas hold a miracle for each one of you. May your hearts be lighter and your lights brighter as you share this Christmas with those you love. May God bless you, and keep you always.

With love,

Alice VL

It’s never the plan and not easy to tarnish the reputation of an international hero, a Nobel Peace Prize winner. The world embraces and recognizes the ‘father of a nation,’ as opposed to the reality, the ‘spear of a nation.’  The world knows Nelson Mandela for his struggle and long walk to freedom, but what the world doesn’t know is that it was and is, and will always be a lie. It is the world’s greatest con, and the long walk of a terrorist.

There is no ‘Rainbow Nation,’ and there never was. The hero who purportedly led South Africa to freedom, yet, the same man who in 1992, two years after his release and surrounded by members of the ANC and the ANC’s terrorist arm – the Unkhonto We Sizwe, sang their song reaffirming their promise to, ‘kill them – kill the whites’ as he clenched his fist in an aggressive, black power salute.

The same hero whose evils were justified by the world due to the reputed struggles of apartheid, irrespective of his close alliances with communist and terrorist regimes such as Castro, cheering the words, ‘Long live comrade Fidel Castro,’ referring to Gaddafi as ‘my brother leader’ and pointing to Arafat as ‘a comrade in arms.’

A simple search on any search engine on genocide in South Africa proves that our calls for help are extinguished and ferociously disputed. After the scandal involving Bell Pottinger, we can only assume the same publicity campaigns are again secretly in place to veil the truth from the world, defending the ANC government established by Nelson Mandela and founder of the PAC – South Africa’s notorious terrorist organization. The hero who gave rise to the ANC Youth League, the indoctrinated black population of South Africa, and more hazardously, Julius Malema, leader of the Economic Freedom Fighters.

When someone from outside the borders of South Africa says, ‘We didn’t know?’ or ‘Nelson Mandela, a true hero,’ I, and so many South Africans are once again painfully aware of the certainty that there are screens in place, filtering out the true state of the atrociousness taking place against farmers and the minority population in South Africa, again, put into motion by Nelson Mandela, once aided by Cyril Ramaphosa.

The world might be able to ignore the gruesomeness and tortures applied to victims by not reporting the true facts in mainstream media. The numbers don’t add up, and the fact that these victims are white and a minority, is not disclosed or questioned. Mostly, these numbers are manipulated by classifying these horrendous attacks and murders as ‘crimes of opportunity.’

Not only are we faced with presidents who came after Nelson Mandela, determined to continue his ‘legacy,’ but we are exposed to social media bodies determined to shut down awareness of the quandary of the minority South Africans, re-classifying our pleas as white-driven-propaganda, white supremacy or white racists.

But perhaps, when enough survivors’ voices are heard, and an irregular number of petitions and appeals have reached to outside the borders of South Africa, perhaps when the minority groups are barely surviving, the true intentions of Nelson Mandela will surface for the world to see. Perhaps, the children who are brought into the world and know nothing else, can grow up without the fear of witnessing their parents’ cold-blooded murders, or live through their own frightening, torturous deaths.

Until then, we are tormented when we tell our children they shouldn’t bring children into this world, in this country. We can’t risk anymore deaths. We can’t watch or hear of anymore little girls or little boys being raped or tortured to death. We don’t want to identify any more bodies, and we no longer want to carry tiny coffins down the street.

We are asking our children to accept their fate. We are telling them that we can’t fight back, because the world was and still is in awe of Nelson Mandela and the terrorist government he helped bring into power their lifetimes ago. We are telling them that we’ve lost. We are told not to be seen as the ‘aggressors.’ It is said that picking up arms and defending our families and our land will be viewed as acts of terrorism by apartheid-supporters, white supremacists and racists. They are telling us to take it. They are telling us to watch our loved ones die. So, why aren’t our attackers seen as aggressors? Why aren’t the killings against us seen as acts of terrorism? Why is our government still in power? Where are the new apartheid labels? Where are the black-supremacy labels? Why ins’t there mention of racism against whites? This sword isn’t cutting both ways.

Thousands of documented proof, and still, silence. Thousands of hate-filled threats against us, and still, silence. Hundreds of videos showing the call to kill white South Africans, and still, silence. When our courts find that songs such as ‘Kill the Boer,’ ‘One Settler – One Bullet’ and ‘Kiss the Boer’ are nothing more than struggle songs and means no harm, we understand again how much trouble we are in.

When government allies call for the ‘killing of whites’ publicly, we expect an increase in farm murders and home invasions, and as though on schedule, it happens. When blatant social media postings are made viral threatening the eradication of the entire minority population, we silently watch and wait as these groups inspire and encourage the attacks and killings.

When members of our tribe are inhumanely attacked, and murdered in their homes and on the lands they were born into, when families are invaded by ruthless attackers in every corner of each province of South Africa, the ANC government and contaminated police force describes these targeted exterminations as ‘ordinary crimes.’ Farm attacks and murders are then re-classified as ‘minor crimes,’ and submitted as such in their annual statistics. Minor crimes.

Under the ANC regime, an environment in which crime continues to flourish and is seen as ‘reparations’ was created and led to the indoctrination of all South Africans. Attacks on the minority citizens are condoned, sometimes publicly, and has resulted in distrust between two races.

The previously disadvantaged believe that they have been given approval to punish all white citizens, whether or not they were alive during the apartheid era. They have been taught that white South Africans are thieves, murderers and slave masters. As a result, attacks increase daily while the minority citizens grow increasingly bitter and angry.

What was once labeled as Nelson Mandela’s long walk to freedom, despite his past and conviction as a terrorist responsible for the lives of many innocents, turned into the first steps of his long walk of terrorism.

Cyril Ramaphosa famously commented that because ‘we are white, we are part of the old apartheid system.’ What does this tell us? We are guilty. All of us. He is prejudiced against us all. All white South Africans. This statement alone should be enough proof that there is no place in South Africa for any white person because ‘we are part of the old apartheid system,’ even if we’re not and never were. He has accused us, judged us, found us guilty and condemned us. Simply because we are white, we are the enemy. One small statement, one massive meaning with devastating consequences.

He is silent on the murders, land grabs, protests, invasions, attacks and unemployment amongst the minority. From the very beginning, the corrupt parliament, ANC government officials including the violent EFF and BFLF, the cabinet, the presidents and their keepers are protected under their law, one they make up as they go along even if it means altering the constitution to re-write history and suit their narratives, continuing Nelson Mandela’s greatest lie, the rainbow nation, minus white.

What is it when it can’t be labeled as genocide, the eradication of a culture and cleansing the country of all white South Africans? What are we to label these attacks and murders when attackers are in possession of military grade equipment and weapons, some of which have some form of military training behind them? How do we place a label other than genocide on these attacks when the gruesomeness of the killings enforces the belief that these attacks are ‘ordered hits?’ How do we ignore this when seats in parliament are occupied by none other than those who have gained notoriety for the calling of these killings? Calling for the cold-blooded and brutal murders of the white Afrikaners and Boers while they go unpunished or reprimanded?

When these attackers arrive at the homes or farmlands with military grade cell phone signal jammers and military grade weapons with only one goal in mind, to kill, how can we not ask where these come from, and who sent them? By subjecting these minorities to inhumane physical and emotional trauma when committing heinous torturous acts against their loved ones, is it fair to ask if these attacks are planned by government entities to force us off our lands and from our country?

What do we call it when our Afrikaner and Boer tribes are psychologically tortured, besieged, criticized and provoked through hate-speech, threatened and intimidated by the promise of seizing our homes, possessions and our lands? Because of Nelson Mandela, the hero who fought in the name of struggle, who was responsible for countless deaths and murders not only of the minority groups, but of his own, the world chooses to deny the severity of the targeted killings that is slowly, but surely, eliminating the white population, one by one, each day, every day.

When Cyril Ramaphosa was asked about these murders and government’s complicity in these attacks, he simply stated that these were ‘figments’ of our imagination, and that they were nothing more than internet crimes with white supremacists spreading propaganda. Again, the numbers don’t lie. The brutality and viciousness don’t lie. The failure to protect all South Africans is in the numbers. Look at them. Get the numbers, and look at them.

The hatred is brazen and public. The threats made against the minority South Africans are blatant. We are ‘ordered to leave’ or ‘give up our land or face a certain death.’ The demands leave us with little doubt that we are targets and that we will, at one point, become a survivor or a victim.

These murders are often prolonged and drawn-out until the very last breath of a father, mother or child is taken. Torture is imperative during these rituals, and are enjoyed and boasted about.          Demonic methods such as burning victims with items like blowtorches or hot irons, pouring boiling water or chemicals such as bleach into their throat and over them, sodomizing them with foreign objects, raping and torturing their wives, daughters and mothers, and then finally, beating, stabbing or shooting them to death. Children are strangled, beaten, kicked, stabbed, drowned in boiling water and their heads are smashed in with objects or against walls.

Husbands and fathers are forced to watch these attackers inflict such brutality on their wives or children as they die slowly, before they too, are tortured and killed. This after their eyelids have been cut off, and holes drilled in their knees, forcing them to witness each gruesome attack on each of his children, unable to fight back.

 ‘Kill the Boer – kill the farmer;’ we remember Nelson Mandela’s clenched fists in 1992 and saluting to ‘kill them – kill the whites.’ The long walk of a terrorist had begun.

Is it time yet?

President Of South Africa

This is President Cyril Ramaphosa, the ANC elected President of South Africa and this is what he does. This is how the puppet master rules; in absence and without saying a word to denounce the riots, murders, looting, attacks against the minorities, corruption, crime, money laundering, theft by his cabinet, and the calls to “kill the Boer.” He remains silent while his puppets burn anything and everything they can set a match to, even humans as they continue the tradition of necklacing introduced and left behind by Nelson and Winnie Mandela.

His silence is perceived as a secret nod of approval for his puppets to carry on; loot, murder, riot, destroy and leave nothing behind in their path of destruction. Like the coward he is, and has proven over and over again, he cowers away and hides out until the dust settles, but only until the very next time. While South Africa burns, while ‘xenophobic’ attacks rummage through our cities, his deputy, Ace Magashule steps in and demands that black on black violence should stop; all blacks are Africans and should be treated as such. They aren’t foreigners; the real foreigners are those with a “white’ish” skin in South Africa. Still, while Cyril Ramaphosa is silent, Julius Malema urges black South Africans to turn their anger and frustration to the “white monopoly.” The ‘real’ foreigners. The ‘real’ thieves. “I think these whites must for a second keep quiet because we are dealing with a mess created by them. Our anger is directed at the wrong people …” Andile Mngxitama says, “Current looting and riots a ‘dress rehearsal’ for ‘civil war against whites.” Cyril Ramaphosa remains silent.

Instead, he leaves and solicits investments from outside the borders of South Africa, telling the world that all is well with our country and our people. He commands that murder statistics against farmers and the targeted minority South Africans are manipulated, main stream media to be silent and he assures you all that there are NO attacks against the minorities of South Africa, but that crime is simply high. He tells you that land theft (expropriation without compensation) is actually legal and will be dealt with in an orderly fashion, yet, what he doesn’t tell you is that he will be amending our constitution to legally steal our homes from us.

You believe him despite the footage and reports that surface. You all believe IN him despite the crimes and corruption of his cabinet, even his own questionable activities. You say things like South Africa is a ‘resilient democracy’ and it is safe for all South Africans, despite your own travel warnings to your citizens.

You all point fingers at us, the so-called racists and white supremacists, yet, Anglo has left. Continental Tyres is out. Whirlpool has taken a financial hit just to be gone. There are more. In total, South Africa has lost 83,000 businesses since 2007.

When is your planned holiday to South Africa? Where is your investment business in South Africa? Instead, you send financial aid just to be done with it. Just so you don’t have to deal with it. Just so that the looting, thefts and crimes can continue. In other words, you have done your bit. 

South Africa has never needed any ‘help’ before, not even when we were sanctioned. Our ZAR value was of the strongest, even stronger than the USA for a few years. We have never needed financial aid before – yet, you can’t seem to connect the dots, or admit to any of this.

You, the world outside – that’s the you I am referring to. You, the enablers of a murderous, corrupt warlord and his demonic soldiers. You, who continues to give and support the current ANC terrorist government. You, who know that the killings are happening, but takes an ANC terrorist’s word for it when he says it is nothing more than ‘made up internet crimes.’

I hope that it is well with YOUR soul. I hope that you can stand to look at yourself in the mirror and I hope you can sleep knowing YOU are enabling instead of condemning or rescuing. 

May God have mercy because these evil beings won’t show any for YOU.