We need a new Afrikaner story: letting go of fear and embracing belonging

On the morning of February 11, I received a WhatsApp message from a close relative. It was a call to prayer, an urgent appeal to all who “care about South Africa” to pray for a petition that was to be handed over to the US embassy, because only God can help us out of this difficult situation.

I read it twice, hoping that I had misunderstood. A petition, prayer and a plea to America — this was being offered as the solution? And then it struck me: they think I would support this. It was assumed that, as an Afrikaner from a Christian background, I would. That I, too, would see Trump as an “answer” to the challenges faced by Afrikaners in South Africa.

The message horrified me. The message implied that all Afrikaners who love South Africa would naturally align with this cause. That if you are a “good” person, a “faithful” person, you would fall in line. And yet, I felt deeply alienated. Because I do care about South Africa — passionately — but this is not what “better” looks like to me.

To understand where this sentiment comes from, we need to look at the history of the Afrikaners in South Africa. Descendants of Dutch, French Huguenot and German settlers, Afrikaners forged a strong cultural identity through hardship and survival — first under British colonial rule and later through conflicts with indigenous communities.

The Anglo-Boer wars (1880—1881 and 1899—1902) were defining moments, particularly the second war, when British scorched-earth policies and concentration camps devastated Afrikaner families. This experience fostered resilience, self-reliance and resistance to external domination, while also reinforcing a lingering sense of victimhood — a narrative nationalist leaders would later weaponise.

Yet, the idea of a “pure” Afrikaner identity was always a constructed myth. Many Afrikaners have mixed ancestry, with historical ties to slaves from Portuguese Mozambique, Dutch Ceylon and Dutch India — an aspect of history often left unspoken. Similarly, Afrikaans, a source of great cultural pride, did not originate solely from white Afrikaners but emerged through linguistic blending, first spoken by enslaved communities who simplified Dutch and infused it with their own languages. Despite these realities, Afrikaner nationalism erased these origins to justify racial segregation and construct an exclusive, superior identity.

By the 20th century, Afrikaner nationalism had become a dominant political force, culminating in the rise of the National Party and the institutionalisation of racial segregation in 1948 — now known as apartheid. Under this system, white Afrikaners secured economic and political dominance, reinforcing the belief that they were the rightful rulers of South Africa.

A close alliance between church and state further legitimised this worldview. The Dutch Reformed Church and other Afrikaans churches provided theological justification, preaching that Afrikaners were God’s chosen people, divinely ordained to bring “light” to a “dark” continent. This religious doctrine gave moral cover to race-based oppression, embedding white exceptionalism into both law and culture.

Apartheid codified racial categorisation and ruthlessly enforced segregation, solidifying white Afrikaner control while stoking fear of external threats. “Swart gevaar” (black danger) and “rooi gevaar” (red danger) became rallying cries, weaponising the fear of black political empowerment and communist influence to justify continued oppression.

Meanwhile, Afrikaners who rejected this ideology — people like Bram Fischer and Beyers Naudé — were branded as traitors, cast out for daring to align with the anti-apartheid struggle.

By the late 1980s, it became clear that apartheid had to end. In the 1992 referendum, 70% of Afrikaners voted for change, signalling a willingness to move towards democracy. But 1994 shattered a constructed reality — many Afrikaners struggled to adjust, grappling with feelings of displacement and uncertainty about their role in the new South Africa.

The introduction of new labour laws and BEE policies sought to redress historical injustices, but for many Afrikaners these changes were experienced not as necessary correction but as exclusion. Long accustomed to economic dominance, some felt actively pushed out of opportunities, while others saw the erosion of deeply valued cultural spaces, particularly in language and education.

Instead of competing on equal footing, many Afrikaners now faced barriers that limited access to jobs, contracts and advancement — fuelling a growing sense of economic and cultural loss.

This fear distorts reality. The discomfort of having to share space, resources and power is misread as an existential threat

At the same time, many Afrikaners embraced democracy and played pivotal roles in shaping a democratic South Africa. Business leaders like Anton Rupert, Albert Wessels and Christo Wiese actively supported political change, while key figures such as Roelf Meyer, Theuns Eloff and Frederik van Zyl Slabbert were instrumental in negotiating the transition to democracy. Meanwhile, intellectuals like Herman Gillomee, Sampie Terreblanche and Willie Esterhuyse had long challenged the ideological foundations of apartheid, contributing to shifts in thinking that helped pave the way for change.

In the business sphere, entrepreneurs such as Whitey Basson (Shoprite Checkers), Jannie Mouton and Michiel le Roux (Capitec), and Willem Roos and René Otto (Outsurance) built world-class businesses, driving economic growth and job creation in the new South Africa.

Afrikaners are still part of South Africa’s success story. But history remains a point of tension — especially for those who see any shift in privilege as oppression.

For many Afrikaners, the feeling of loss is not actual oppression — it is the experience of losing unearned power. There is a well-known phrase that captures this dynamic: “When you are accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression.”

Even after apartheid ended three decades ago, many Afrikaners retained economic security, better access to resources and stronger global networks than most South Africans. Yet, instead of recognising this advantage, a small portion of the Afrikaner community perceives any move towards greater equality as persecution.

This fear distorts reality. The discomfort of having to share space, resources and power is misread as an existential threat.

Fast forward to today, and narratives of alienation, displacement, victimhood and nostalgia for the past are resurfacing. The petition to the US embassy is a striking example: a small group of Afrikaners seeking asylum under the guise of being a persecuted minority. It is eerily reminiscent of old nationalist propaganda — except now, instead of resisting British rule, they seek validation from an external power.

This “Make South Africa Great Again” sentiment mirrors Trump-era America: a longing for a past where a particular group was in charge, coupled with fear of demographic and political change. For some Afrikaners, “greatness” means returning to a South Africa where they held disproportionate privilege — where they did not have to compete with black South Africans for jobs and could live in cultural enclaves without challenge.

Jonathan Jansen, in Knowledge in the Blood, explains how some white Afrikaners inherited a deep sense of superiority, even if they do not consciously recognise it. This “knowledge” is passed down through generations — through family stories, school curricula and cultural institutions. It is not that all Afrikaners explicitly desire apartheid’s return, but many still struggle to let go of the notion that South Africa “worked better” when Afrikaners were in control.

Afrikaner voices still carry disproportionate weight in national discourse — a legacy of historical privilege. Despite being a minority, Afrikaners remain largely economically stable and well-networked, enabling their grievances — no matter how exaggerated — to gain traction in media, business and political discourse.

This is why we hear so much about the plight of white farmers, but far less about the millions of black South Africans still living in poverty. It is why some Afrikaners see broad-based BEE policies as an injustice, yet rarely acknowledge that economic exclusion under apartheid was not just a “policy” — it was a deliberate, generational theft. This selective amnesia is privilege in itself.

There is an irony in how loudly some Afrikaners lament their “exclusion” while still benefiting from historical head starts. The challenge, then, is for those of us who see a different future to take up more space in the conversation — to ensure that the loudest Afrikaner voices are not always those yearning for the “good old days”, but those committed to a more just and equitable future for all.

It is not a coincidence that this call to support the petition came wrapped in religious language. For many white Afrikaners, cultural identity is deeply tied to faith. The Dutch Reformed Church once preached that apartheid was divinely ordained. The idea of Afrikaners as a “chosen people” was ingrained in our culture for decades. Even though apartheid has officially ended, remnants of this thinking persist: God will deliver us. God will protect our people.

As an Afrikaner, I sometimes feel embarrassed that the loudest voices among us are still those who refuse to share privilege — that instead of reckoning with history, they attempt to rewrite it, framing the move towards justice as persecution

But what if “deliverance” is not about restoring Afrikaner power? What if salvation means integrating into a South Africa where we are just one of many communities? What if the real prayer should be for healing, for listening, for learning how to belong and contribute without dominance?

There is something both absurd and tragic about Afrikaners petitioning the US for refugee status. Absurd, because we once rejected “foreign influence” and “American imperialism”, yet now some Afrikaners are seeking refuge under the wing of an American president (who happens to be a convicted felon). Tragic, because this small group seem unable to imagine a future where they are not in control.

As an Afrikaner, I sometimes feel embarrassed that the loudest voices among us are still those who refuse to share privilege — that instead of reckoning with history, they attempt to rewrite it, framing the move towards justice as persecution.

And so I return to that WhatsApp message. I did not respond. But it has been on my mind.

I, too, want a better South Africa. But my vision of “better”’ is different. It does not involve looking backward. It does not involve fear. It does not involve Trump.

I believe in a South Africa where Afrikaners do not have to be in charge to feel they belong. Where we contribute and participate — without trying to dominate. Where our identity is not based on separateness and superiority, but on connection and equality.

There are many Afrikaners who feel the same way. Over the past few weeks, I have heard from friends, colleagues and family members who are equally horrified to be associated with “that” group of Afrikaners. We do not all long for the past. We do not all believe in fear. We do not all seek refuge elsewhere.

So I will not pray for that petition.

Instead, I hope for something else: for my fellow Afrikaners to process and let go of their fear, their nostalgia, their need to be “saved”. Because we do not need saving. We just need to be here — fully, openly, courageously and committed to a future in South Africa.

• Van Rhyn is a leadership development expert and social justice activist