Over the past few weeks, the debate around so-called “white refugees” seeking asylum in the US has stirred a deep anger in me, but it has also strengthened my resolve. As a South African, I am more determined than ever to contribute meaningfully to the transformation our country still urgently needs. We have a long way to go to improve most people’s lives in the country, especially the students I work with daily. They must understand what is at stake—not just for their futures but for the soul of our democracy.
Let’s be honest. South Africa’s democracy, now three decades old, rests on the promise of transformation and unity. But for many Black South Africans, that promise often feels like a performance, where they must still be the “explainer”, the justifier of pain, and the bearer of patience. Meanwhile, the architects and beneficiaries of apartheid’s cruelty continue to move through this new era largely unscathed—economically secure, socially insulated, and, at times, unapologetically arrogant.
Under apartheid, white South Africans did not build wealth through competition or innovation; they were handed it by law. Land was seized. Education was tiered. Jobs were reserved. And Black South Africans were criminalised for simply existing in their own land. This wasn’t just systemic exclusion; it was organised theft. And when apartheid ended, the world clapped for a peaceful transition. But no one paid. No one was jailed for the killings. No estates were broken up. No banks returned the wealth they accumulated on the backs of the oppressed.
And so, the pain continues.
This is not bitterness; it’s truth. Transformation without justice is just rebranding. And silence, or worse, indifference, from those who inherited apartheid’s advantages is itself a political statement. It says, “We acknowledge your suffering, but don’t ask us to give anything back.”
This dynamic played out in one of the most quietly heartbreaking ways during the Oval Office meeting between President Cyril Ramaphosa and former U.S. President Donald Trump. Instead of engaging as equals, Ramaphosa, like so many Black leaders before him, was put in the position of explaining land reform, of justifying the frustration of his people, of softening the language around dispossession so that power could remain comfortable. It was a familiar script: the Black leader must be rational, measured, and grateful, while history’s beneficiaries sit back and nod, unconcerned. Globally, white fear is rising. We see it in the backlash against equity efforts, the rewriting of history in textbooks, and the manufactured panic about “reverse racism”. But what we are witnessing is discomfort with fair competition. When the playing field levels, many who have only known privilege begin to panic. They are unfamiliar with starting from nothing because they never had to. In South Africa, this fear manifests as resistance to land reform, suspicion toward affirmative action, and even resentment that the post-apartheid state is not “grateful enough”. But the truth is clear: if wealth and success were truly earned under apartheid, they would hold up in a fair system. The panic suggests otherwise.
So, what now? What do we do when justice was never done, when power refuses to acknowledge its past, and when the majority must still explain themselves just to be heard?
We speak. We write. We teach. We remember. And we refuse to be silent. Healing cannot come from suppression; it comes from truth-telling, equity, and dismantling systems that continue to protect inherited privilege.
South Africa doesn’t need more rainbow rhetoric. It requires courage, from all of us, to confront the unfinished business of justice.