“The greatest fear of the white settler is to lose his job, his farm or his house and all the luxuries! This will enable the new DEMOCRATIC GOVERNMENT to tax them to the utmost while our comrades in MK and APLA continue with their part of the struggle.”
The ANC, with the help of the EFF, and a few other clusters around the world have systematically made it their business, their life’s work and their ultimate goal to cripple, and destroy our Boer/Afrikaner men. Their war against our men was an attempt to weaken them by taking their culture and history away from them. They have worked non-stop and around the clock to dehumanize and demoralize our men by torturing their wives and children. They have stolen their ability to provide for their families, and they will inevitably, steal their lands or homes under the guise of reparation. They continue to label our men as thieves, settlers, and racists. Their target for the past 27 years, has been our men.
What they didn’t count on, and what has left them disoriented to such an extent that they have placed little cluster groups around the world to attack and silence us, is the women. They didn’t count on the Boer/Afrikaner women to join forces with women from around the world, to fight against the propaganda that government-funded institutions are determined to send out into the world, by attacking these women in the hopes that they surrender, curl up in a corner, fall apart emotionally, and hide from the world.
When each woman targeted gathers her wolves, and moves into position so as to defend their pack, and defend the attack, these institutions grow increasingly desperate and disparaged, even feeling the shame of being ridiculed. They did not count on the women to stand up with their men, and engage in a kind of warfare, the world is yet to understand, and one that has only just begun. By the increase of attacks against these women, we know that this war is one we can and will win. The escalation of attacks exposes their fear of the threat they are finding in these women. Each attack, each blow they hand us, and each time they take a payout to fight harder against us, we stand up stronger, and our circle grows bigger.
What these clusters are doing, is only making room for our growth. With each wolf added to our circle, a new howl can be heard. With each setback we face, two or more wolves take their place in our circle. These women, who have proudly adopted the title, “Boer” women, can now be found around the world, across the oceans, high on mountains, and they are taking no prisoners. They are everywhere, and they have come together to stand with our Boer men, our Afrikaner soldiers, and are fighting the fight not behind them, but beside them.
What we have learned from the women who have moved into this circle, is that they will never give up. They will never let us go, and they will never leave one man, woman, or child behind. They will never surrender to the attacks, to the pressure or to the fear these terrorists are desperate to instill in our circle. These women fear no-one, only their God. The will not surrender, only to their men, and their God. They will arm themselves each day, and take their places beside the men they believe in. The men whose strength they know is still within them. The men whose spirit can never die. The men whose faith lets them fight from their knees. These are the men they would give their lives for.
To the women in this circle, when you found us, we never knew we were looking for you. You are the adopted Boer women that came from all around the world, and have added to our fight and our voices. This is a call to other women who still believe in our men, and who know their strength, to come to our circle, and take our hands. Gone are the days of envy and judgements that women were known for in the past. Gone is competing with other women. We have found ourselves in a circle where we uplift, fight for, become voices for, protect, love and care for other women who believe like we do. This is what Circular 213-6 did for us. This is the road these terrorists have led us on. This is how we found ourselves in this pack, stronger and braver than we ever thought we were. We call on other women who are ready to join our fight, and our voice.
To the men we are standing with, we salute you. We see you. We still see you. We know that the warrior in you is there. It is in your blood. It is who you are. It is what you will become again, and it is what we are learning from. It is you who gives us strength, hope and courage. It is your history and culture that gives us a purpose. It is where we begin, and it is where we will end. With you. It is the roads you have traveled, the strength you have displayed and your loyalty to our God, that gets us up each day. It is your heart. It is your spirit. It is you. It is within you. You have paved the way for us, and we will walk the roads it takes us on. We will never let you go. We will be there to soften the blows, and take over when you think you can no longer lift your head. We will never let you go.
We are who we are. There isn’t a circular, a government, a terrorist, or an evil in this world that can kill that which is within us.
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.”
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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 ‘resilientdemocracy’ 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
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.
We dream of taking just one more walk through our lands, cross over our deserts and stroll carelessly along our shorelines. We hunger to climb our hills, saunter below our mountains and barefoot, we are desperate to feel the beaches underneath our feet. We want to rush in underneath a waterfall, paddle through a river, and wade our toes in our oceans. We long to watch the sun set and the sun rise again over our valleys and oceans, and step in under the rain that comes crashing enthusiastically down from our South African skies.
Instead, we emerge from our
nights of hiding, reminded that we have reached just one more day to fight, and
one more night to survive. Our respite is short-lived when we hear of another farmer
dead, another mother lost, another child fighting for his life and another home
destroyed. Another family wrecked. Another
heart lost. Another soul broken.
We are faced with homes in ruins,
some riddled with bullet holes, each telling a story of fear, brutality,
anguish, and death. History that has been preserved in buildings for centuries
are burnt to the ground, expunging a little more from our heritage and our
past. What has stood agelessly now lies ruined at our feet. Our hearts try to bravely
recover by telling our minds that it was only
a building and that no matter how hard they tried, they could never erase our
history from our hearts or from our minds.
Sometimes, we are numb; we don’t cry.
Sometimes, we see and we hear, but still, we don’t cry. We simply bend our
knees, lower our heads, and thank God that our family was sheltered and are safe,
for now. We breathe a little easier
and when we hear that another home was brutally invaded, we hold each other a
little tighter. We are beleaguered by guilt because it was someone else, and not us. We hate ourselves for the
temporary relief of surviving another night, when someone else didn’t. We hate that in the darkness,
the ghastliest of nights for someone else, their terrified voices echoed out
into the distance, praying and begging their attackers for mercy. In silence,
we live their last night. We don’t
say it, but we live their anguish, and we feel their suffering. We step carefully
into their lives as details of their cruelest night reaches us. We know one
thing; we are not as brave as they
were. Another family wrecked. Another
heart lost. Another soul broken.
Death reaches us all, but how we
are reaching our end is grueling. How we end up praying for death to show up,
is excruciating. How the pain, torture and barbarism inflicted upon us, is dispiriting,
leaving us with no other option or wish other than to invite the mercy of death
into our homes. In that moment of torment and despair, we are no longer
attached to our lives, our homes, our possessions, our friends, our sanity, our
heritage, our culture, our family or the lands in which we have invested our
hearts in a country our souls used to dwell in. A thousand different ways before
that night, we have tried to count the ways in which we have remained devoted
to our country, yet, the magnitude of our adoration for our homelands will
never matter again.
For those who have stood at, and
walked through death’s door; for those hiding in the night, South Africa will
always be our greatest love story; our greatest sadness and our greatest consecration.
Our commitment to our God is that which built a bridge between our souls and our
country; one that will always be home to us, to our hearts and to what is the
very core of us.
We sit and think. Sometimes, too
much. Sometimes, too wildly. Sometimes, too overwhelmingly. Sometimes, we are
crushed. Sometimes, we want to hurt back; we want to punish those who don’t walk
like we do, who don’t believe as we do, who don’t feel as we do, and who would never
pray as we do. Sometimes, we just sit and think, and sometimes, we just cry. Sometimes, we are enraged
and we want to discard the banner used to conceal the hurt and harm they have
caused us and our tribe. We want to fly high our flag again; a cloak once worn by South Africa to remind us of
who we are and how God called upon us to be courageous and to love all. One where we could stand stripped
and naked under our stormy skies and still be covered and clothed by our flag.
And, as it flutters in the wind, we
come alive again. As we stand fascinated by the vision before us, we once again
see the symbol of our country’s love and devotion to us; where our nightmares are over, and where our dreams can breathe
again. A place where we are asked only to worship our God before our nation, and then, to stand together under our homeland’s
cape as it nudges us towards its promises and allows us to take another walk
through our lands, across our deserts and along our shorelines.
We don’t know how to ask for help
anymore, or where to turn to any longer. Nobody wants to know. Nobody wants to
hear. Nobody wants to see. But us.
Nobody wants to.
We can’t stand to watch the pain
and destruction around us, so, like the strangers we have become, we leave. We walk slowly beneath unfamiliar
skies and down city streets that we know, carry no evidence of the lives we had
once lived. As deep into the soils as we could dig, the grounds in a strange
land would never find the preservation of our footprints we left behind in the grounds
when we were only children.
It would never know of us, even if after a while, it gets to
know us. We could never love with our
soul, for the pieces we have left are barely enough to allow us to breath the
air of a country that didn’t raise us.
We hear the way others speak
around us, and it leaves us feeling conquered. We listen for the language of our
kind, but no matter how desperate we are to hear sounds like ours in a crowd,
it remains silent. We search the masses for the faces we love, and the souls that
we have left behind. Sometimes, when we find ourselves wandering around aimlessly;
we are so sure we hear a voice that we once knew, only to discover that it was
no-one at all. It was nothing more than a hankering; a whisper from the soul.
We once used to lay awake at
night, waiting for the voices and the shadows of the night to come for us; now we
lay awake, haunted by the mutters of our oceans, rains and winds back home. Nothing is the same anymore. The sounds
of the rain crashing down on our streets, sidewalks and lands has a rhythm and
a song of its own, and the way our skies darkens during our thunderstorms is
something we have not yet seen since. Our backdrops, our mountains, our
hilltops, our bush, our forests, our thunder and lightning, our sunsets and our
sunrises, will always be like nothing we have ever seen, or will again.
These are all the pieces of us left behind in a country we never wanted to leave. The power and beauty; the glory that rests on the strength of our flag and our heritage is not ready to welcome us home yet, back to our homelands. We pray each night that our beloved South Africa keeps our hearts intact until we can come home again.
Each time you open your mouth, I get angrier. Our people get angrier. South Africa gets angrier. At first, I would swallow my retort and just listen to the deceptions and defamations that spills from your mouth, shake my head and slide into the next day. Each new day, you would deny our pain, our suffering and the hunt that is on for us. Perhaps by your command? And every single day, it gets worse. You empower yourself like a coward does, through our silence. Your spineless silence condemns the reality of our extinction, and it angers us and it surges by the hour.
Until one day. Soon, we will retort and we will retaliate.
It’s hard for others to imagine what it is like to live in our time. You are nothing more than a front for the mob, the cartels and the war lords who have steadily taken over South Africa, leaving destruction in your wake with nothing more than the ruins of your greed, your hatred and your hunt for our blood. The friendly face you portray to keep us and the rest of the world pacified is long gone. You no longer have a need to hide your abhorrence. There is no repercussion or punishment for your actions. It is out in the open. Your failure to protect us or condemn the crimes against us must be your fiercest message so far. Like the true coward you are, you insist that the torturous murders against us are merely “internet crimes,” fabricated online and spread throughout the world by the malicious minority; us.
We no longer use the word “government” as a respected or authoritive organization; we have lost our taste for being dominated, crippled, hunted and murdered. Nevertheless, some of our own still can’t see. They don’t hear. They don’t understand. They don’t condemn. Instead, some of us bow to your commands and bow to your hatred. You have the world believe that we are racists or as you famously and regularly say, “white supremacists” for speaking out against you and your terrorist government; against the forces out to destroy us and in direct opposition of our Christianity.
Yet, the very religions of you and your terrorist armies have inspired crude methods of control, allowing you the puppeteer, the grand master, the greatest coward, to hide behind false superiority while manipulating your kind into barbarous acts of war, genocide and culture murders. You knowthis. Weknow this. But remaining silent, makes your manipulation simpler. Wewon’t remain silent any longer. We won’t bow down to your acts of terrorism and we don’t fear you or your evil ways. We fear only our God.
You, our government, suppressors and anti-genocide promoters have learnt how to influence and control the subconscious minds of your followers, bypassing their own ability to make decisions, and indoctrinating their minds with false truths, false history and your own personal, cowardly narrative.
We didn’t surrender to your terrorist agenda. We don’t. We won’t. Ever.
We choose to fight by using the methods of generations before us; not for counter-propaganda, but to free our minds from your nauseating enclosures of fear.
Morals aren’t principles given how you bend them to suit yourself, yet there is no need to for you to be authentic, honest and true. Like a weakling. Like a coward. We intend and have begun to move in the right direction with certainty and pride, towards a day when our country’s needs are effectively met and with superior integrity and morals. Because the right to freedom, and lead a natural life is God given to all; it’s up to us to make a society where that can happen. And we will.
Resource restriction is your choice of weapon for this war; a way to cause stress in a selected and targeted population with enough tension to bring about conflict. Restriction of any need such as employment, protection against your criminal entities and the right to life will undoubtedly lead to war. A war you are calling for. A war your tribe is counting on. A war you cannot win because even the most vigorous of cultures will become contaminated once you refuse their basic needs. And you will. Eventually.
By placing us in “survival mode,” you have placed us on the path to retaliation with a strong desire to survive by any force necessary. And we will. We’ve been here before. We’ve walked down this road before. We’ve dealt with terrorism and evil before. We will again.
You are in power because you crave it, yet, you are the least suitable to lead us. You are nothing more than a power-hungry sociopath. And if by any chance you deem this to be untrue, stand up and tell the world what the true state of South Africa is; tell them that you have lost control. Tell them that your loyalty was bought a long time ago; first by the very terrorist organization you helped form and then by the corporations that fed your greed. You don’t represent us. You don’t represent our country. You will never represent our tribe. You are a coward.
And even if you do this; even if you send out a broadcast to the entire world, your time is done; your time with God and with country is over. It’s time you see God’s hand in our lands and in our white lives.
Your cowardly response to a man greatly respected and dearly loved; a true son of this country but one you seem to fear more than death itself, “If you come for our lives and our lands; you will die,” guarantees only one thing; you will never own up to the failure you are. Your misplaced love for South Africa will blind you until the end; you are incapable of placing God or country first. You know only hatred, greed, destruction and evil.
The unity and love of our people; our nation cannot be lessened by emotions of hatred, fear or power. It’s time to take hands against all that fuels racism against us; all that seeks to destroy us. It’s time to take hands against a power that calls for our suffering and our death. A bitter divide has grown amongst us as our tribe continues to fuel the already harsh fires set by the others. Yet, with so much against us; so many that hate us and curse us for breathing in the wrong color, we have become our own divide leaving us increasingly vulnerable to the enemy.
It’s time to take hands and call on each other for the protection of our children and our elderly, our women and our men but more importantly, for the survival of our God and our country. Then, let them gather around us where we stand in unity and watch as we stop their bitter invasion of our culture, our heritage and our home. It’s time to take hands and form a tight circle around our nation; the numbers won’t matter for our strength lies in our union.
It’s time to take hands against those who are here to dehumanize us and cast us in a light where we deserve the cruelty and barbaric acts against us. Between them and from the highest, they have consent to invade our minds, subduing and destroying us while keeping us as prisoners of their own fears. It’s time to take hands and love our tribe without borders; unconditionally and take back the people we were before they started carving away at our souls.
It’s time to take hands and free our minds of the belief that we stand alone and that we are guilty of crimes simply identified by the color of our skin. It’s time to preserve our history and our truths irrespective of what the others are indoctrinated to believe to be true by the false and inept leaders who tailor-make our history to suit their narratives. For, when we take hands, we once more become a nation led by God, admired by our allies and feared by the others.
It’s time to take hands for these are the days of a slow progressing combat; one waged on all of our nation as they seek to overrun our souls by impressing their truths and invoking fear. Together, and holding onto one another, we will again remain focused on who we are, who we were and where we have come from. As a nation united, their power will dwindle, evil will be exposed and the death and carnage won’t be for nothing.
It’s time to take hands. We are here, on the ground while the world watches through filters as the others come for us. The world can’t see how the enemy sets out to execute you, me and all of our tribe. Whatever crimes were committed in the past; they were never our crimes, yet, their desire for our blood knows no bounds. From our babies to our aged, the call for their execution is loud, clear but filtered to the world. They hunt us and are thrilled by their kills, almost as though they are collecting trophies. The screens don’t show this; they don’t show the sick joy of evil the others present when they come for violence and destruction.
It’s time to take hands and to remind ourselves that the others feel nothing; they feel no guilt and no remorse and have taken none of the peace that was once offered by our tribe. Still, taking one another’s hands will become the walls, barriers and our safety during our storms. Our unity will be our strength, and it will come from our love of our God and our country. It’s time to place your hand in mine, feel our hearts beat stronger while our forgotten pride for our nation grows fiercer. We are accountable for each other; it has always been our gift to our tribe. It’s time to take hands as we command our nation, and our legion. United, we can refuse to be powerless and place our faith in our fight; our battle for our children, our mothers and our fathers, those before us and those still to come. It is time to demonstrate how much stronger our faith is, than the evil who works so tirelessly to end us.
It’s time to take hands and move onward with integrity and honor, eradicating ourselves of the emotional debt the entitled are so desperate to crucify us with. With our heads down, we free ourselves from the traps placed on our minds and in our hearts. It’s time to take each other’s hands and step out of the crippling grief of losing our beloved South Africa; a kind of grief we are stuck in and one that has beleaguered us, leaving us in denial. For, we don’t understand evil and instead, we become angrier.
Our stories are all different, yet they are all the same. Our grief surges with each attack and each death while reaching peaks we aren’t sure we could emotionally survive. Pretending to quietly cope is sinking us all, one at a time. It’s time to take hands and turn the helpless back into the hopeful.
Until recently, silencing Steve Hofmeyr has been relatively subtle;
tactful, delicate, diplomatic, discreet, cautious and understated.
These past couple of weeks has seen an overwhelming attack on his
freedom of speech, his music, his right to stand up against corruption, his
livelihood and has resulted in a series of injunctions, snubs and sanctions
against him as a singer, entertainer and activist for the Afrikaner tribe.
Companies such as AIG (Afrikaans Is Groot), MTN, Toyota, Media 24, DSTV, only to name but a
few, have withdrawn their “association” from him resulting in a
nomination for a Ghoema award being summarily withdrawn; a song, Die Land,
performed with four other singers. This supposedly as a result of a
statement he made in 2014; (Excerpt) He was branded as a racist when
in October 2014, Steve Hofmeyr wrote and published a tweet stating that he
believed that black South Africans were the ‘architects of apartheid.’
Yet, here we are, exposed to hate speech, threats and promises to cease
our lands by the South African government including Cyril Ramaphosa, Julius
Malema, and the cronies of BFLF. Cases of hate speech, incitement to kill,
violation of human rights etc. are all disregarded by the South African or
rather, the ANC law because it is acceptable behavior. It is honored
by our law that the minority South Africans, yes, the white South Africans
are guilty of being white and that we, the Afrikaner tribe have no rights.
Struggle songs calling for the slaughter of our tribe is up to the standard of
the ANC government, Toyota, DSTV, MTN, AIG, Media 24 and so on, because
we are white, we are hated and we do not matter. It has once again
become clear that there is a direct attack on the Afrikaner nation, our music, our
right to function and our right to life.
Therefore, I am sharing this extract from My
Turn – South Africa.
Steve Hofmeyr is one of South Africa’s best-known singers and songwriters and is also known for his acting career,
writing, and poetry. He completed two years of compulsory military service before
joining the Pretoria Technikon drama school. He starred in the 1990 Franz Marx
film Agter Elke Man (Behind Every
Man) and in 1992 joined the cast of M-Net’s flagship soap opera Egoli: Place of Gold.
He is also known for his role in Treurgrond (2015) which depicts a
typical farm murder in South Africa, and A Case of Murder (2004). In 1997 his music career took off when he recorded a duet for
his album True To You with Belgian superstar Dana Winner, called You Don’t Bring Me Flowers.
Steve won SAMA (South African Music Awards) for Best Selling South
African Artist in 2003 and 2004. In 2006 he hosted his own show on Afrikaans
channel kykNET, called Dis Hoe Dit Is Met Steve (That’s How It Is With Steve).
But first and foremost, Steve Hofmeyr is an activist for white South
African farmers and has openly voiced his concerns and displeasure at the
government’s inability to protect its farmers, and subsequently, protect the
white citizens of South Africa against genocide.
He has made numerous
claims relating to the murders of minority South Africans. He has openly
claimed that white South Africans, and in particular, Afrikaners, are being ‘killed
like flies,’ and has regularly posted on social media that ‘my tribe is
He posted a picture to
social media of a World Cup soccer stadium, which he claimed could be filled by
the number of white South Africans murdered by black South Africans.
But, his attempts at
creating awareness for a vulnerable community has come at a steep price for him
personally. He was branded as a racist when in October 2014, Steve Hofmeyr
wrote and published a tweet stating that he believed that black South Africans
were the ‘architects of apartheid.’
This prompted a significant public backlash. One of Hofmeyr’s critics
was puppeteer Conrad Koch, and through his puppet Chester Missing, he launched
a campaign calling on companies to boycott their sponsoring of Steve Hofmeyr.
Steve Hofmeyr has accurately given statements indicative of apartheid
denialism, leading various journalists and political analysts to label him a
‘disgrace to South Africa.’
He was quoted as saying that he could trace his African roots further
back than Economic Freedom Fighter leader‚ Julius Malema could. This led to
several festivals and events boycotting the star.
Steve Hofmeyr has been branded a racist simply because he is
unapologetic when it comes to defending the Afrikaner South African and
campaigning for the rights of white South Africans.
He is branded a racist for publicly and accurately pointing out that
white farmers are murdered by black South Africans.
He is branded a racist
for his role in exposing genocide in South Africa and speaking up on behalf of minority South Africans. He has admitted
to getting up to seven death threats an hour.
Steve Hofmeyr has shaped a level of anger amongst black South Africans
with his penetratingly angry outburst over Willemientjie Potgieter’s execution
and the murders of her parents.
A chilling message was written in Sotho on cardboard at the Potgieter
home, ‘We have killed them. We are coming back.’ This message was found on the
gate of the farm where three people were brutally killed in 2010. The victims
of the murders were Attie Potgieter, 40, his wife Wilna, 36, and their
3-year-old daughter Willemien. It was surmised at the time that little
Willemien was shot so that she wasn’t able to identify her parents’ killers.
Three farm workers were
arrested and later, in townships in the area, three more suspects were arrested
for the murders, one which was only 17 years old.
The Potgieter family were murdered in their home on their 11th wedding
anniversary. Arno Potgieter from the neighboring farm, Van Tondersrust, spoke
about the murders of his brother, sister-in-law, and Willemien, ‘It is still
half unreal. It was a terrible, terribly big shock.’
After her mother was killed, 3-year-old Willemien was presumably taken
to an outside room and shot in the back of the head. The body of Willemientjie
as she was fondly known, was then carried to her mother’s body in the main
bedroom where her mother had been shot in the back of the head. Willemien’s
body was found with a pink ribbon still tied to her hair. In the house, a plate
of food was in the microwave.
Attie’s body was found outside his home, next to a fence at the back
door. He was presumably surprised and hit on the back of the head with a sharp
object, possibly a panga, and in addition, he was stabbed with a garden fork. When
reporters arrived at the scene, his body was covered by a pink blanket, where
Giving testimony, pathologist Dr. Robert G Book said that Attie had 151
stab and laceration wounds. Wilna’s injuries revealed several deep lacerations
to her head and a gunshot wound to her neck. ‘Indications were that the woman
and child were shot at close range,’ he said. When asked by state prosecutor
Jannie Botha on his first impressions of Attie’s body, he said that the
deceased ‘had been tortured to death.’
He said the injuries could have been caused by tools such as a garden
fork, panga, spade or sharp knife; other injuries could have been caused by a
brick or stones. The State alleges that the six attackers assaulted Attie outside
his house with knives, a garden fork, and a panga, killing him. They then
attacked Wilma and Willemientjie inside the house before shooting them.
Steve Hofmeyr directly blamed the ‘propaganda of entitlement’ amongst
black people for the brutal massacre. He was quoted as saying, ‘I don’t know
how the world thinks we (the Afrikaners) can transform, integrate and let go of
our prejudices and stay nice, tolerant Christians when blacks can shoot a 3-year-old
child in the head.’
Threats against Steve Hofmeyr became public after voicing his
disapproval of the brutality of the Potgietermurders. One threat against Steve
Hofmeyr was from Noxolo Nox Sebe, ‘I’ll be very happy if someone kills Steve
Hofmeyr. His racist anti-black attitude and behavior are irritating. Now he is
accusing us (blacks) of being killers of white farmers. Fuck him, because white
people were the ones who stole our land and wealth and murdered millions of our
people in the name of civilization…’ Zama Kwela wrote, ‘I agree that white
swine must be killed!’ Lola Bam wrote, ‘Steve Hofmeyr has declared war against
us. I agree with Skhura; either he goes to Australia, or he perishes!’
When asked by Yolisa Mkele if he was a racist, Steve responded with,
‘I’m being called a racist every time I distinguish between races, but I see it
as being racial. We made it taboo to even distinguish between white and black.’
In 2017, a concert in New Zealand that would feature Steve Hofmeyr as one of its headline acts was cancelled
following pressure from South African expats angered at his inclusion.
Johan De Villiers, who is based in Amsterdam, said that ‘on receipt
of the information detailing Hofmeyr’s controversial comments and positions on
various issues, there was a cancellation.’
Earlier in 2017, a concert by Steve Hofmeyr which was initially
scheduled for February 11th at the Nederburg Wine Estate was canceled after an
appeal to the estate by Johan De Villiers to ‘scrap the event.’
It was later revealed that these cancellations and subsequent boycotts
were due to nothing more than the fact that Stever Hofmeyr continued to sing ‘Die Stem’(South African National Anthem prior to 1994)
which was supposedly ‘insulting to black South Africans.’
One of the largest South African Festivals Steve Hofmeyr has been banned
from is Afrikaans Is Groot. This occurred
when Pick n Pay and Jaguar Land Rover South Africa decided not to renew their sponsorship of the
Afrikaans Is Groot concerts.
Klein Karoo and Innibos Arts Festivals have said that Steve Hofmeyr
abused their platforms for his own opportunistic political propaganda and that
they don’t want him back.
This was all for the singing of Die Stem. ‘Die Stem van Suid Afrika’ is a poem which was written in 1918 by CJ Langenhoven, a great Afrikaans
writer, and cultural leader. Music was later added to the poem that speaks of
the beauty of South Africa and the devotion to making South Africa a better country.
Die Stem became the national anthem of the Union of South Africa in 1957. The song is included in the FAK songbook and is seen as a
cultural treasure of the Afrikaans language.
This all for campaigning and advocating against the ANC government
regarding the murder of white farmers; this all due to his fervent attempts at
creating awareness of white genocide in South Africa. By holding onto and
fighting for the survival of his and the Afrikaner heritage, Steve Hofmeyr has
been accused of ‘taking various steps to spread racial hatred and commit defamation
against black South Africans.’
In 2016, Café Dudok, a restaurant in the Netherlands, refused Steve Hofmeyr, though he had been scheduled to give a talk
about the ‘future of Afrikaners.’ Cafe Dudok barred him from the premises after
being made aware of Hofmeyr’s so-called ‘white supremacist views.’
In 2016, The Cape Town Press Club invited Steve Hofmeyr to deliver a
speech, but due to threats by leftist’ groups, his invitation was retracted. Below
is an extract of his speech which points to South African genocide.
10. I believe we are trying to bury the dangers of black violence by
saying things like ‘Black Lives Matter,’ ‘Blacks Can’t Be Racist’ and then
failing to publish crimes along racial lines as they do worldwide. The
countries of our (white) European descent sport a 2/100,000 murder rate. South
Africa, besides being the rape capital of the world, also sports a 33/100,000
murder rate; so don’t mind me if I tend toward paranoia when farm murders occur
at 5 times the national average (more than 150/100,000) which is already 5
times the world average and 15 times the European average.
You can make me go away if you prove these trends wrong or present me
with the fact that whites are responsible for these statistics and that
therefore black appeasement and white punishment is generally justified.
11. I am not sorry at all if I believe that these staggering rates are
genocidal. I am not sorry at all that I said that my people simply are not used
to these levels of rape, by others, on us. Everybody is free to determine their
own tolerance and threshold to these brutalities.
The common answer I get is that whites are murdered less than others (as
if that satisfies our new threshold) or that we are all victims. Yes, this we
know, but are we all perpetrators? We will never know. The point here is, if I’m
wrong, and we overreact, we will solve it, and if you as a liberal are right
and we under-react, you will get the statistic you deserve. Which is the
hardly-bearable status quo.’
Given Steve Hofmeyr’s active campaigning against what the government
calls ‘Alleged Boer Genocide,’ he has been labeled a racist and accused of
creating panic amongst white South Africans and subsequently, barred from
various national and international events.
Steve Hofmeyr says,
‘In 2014, I was banned from singing a song that is not banned. After
banning me from singing Die Stem, appearances and festivals in association with
the ANC and DA (not all) excluded and banned me. So have radio stations owned
by the ANC. Speedily, this resulted in me losing thousands in income.
It was Nelson Mandela himself that decided not to ban Die Stem. He would probably have known how childish it would be. Of course, songs
can and should be banned.
Songs such as Kill The Boer that entice citizens to murder the opposition. Who doesn’t understand what? Die Stem is a song that asks for peace within a nation and homeland. It asks for prayer in thanks.’