WARNING: This is Version 1 of my old archive, so Photos will NOT work and many links will NOT work. But you can find articles by searching on the Titles. There is a lot of information in this archive. Use the SEARCH BAR at the top right. Prior to December 2012; I was a pro-Christian type of Conservative. I was unaware of the mass of Jewish lies in history, especially the lies regarding WW2 and Hitler. So in here you will find pro-Jewish and pro-Israel material. I was definitely WRONG about the Boeremag and Janusz Walus. They were for real.
Original Post Date: 2008-05-10 Time: 00:00:00 Posted By: JoAn
Submitted by P:
Jochrisla Hanekom is pretty enough to bear scrutiny. She has a fragile build; she’s the kind of young woman who people – mostly men – would want to protect.
But she has the confidence of a warhorse. She condenses her cultural prejudice: it is about the misfortune of her people. And in the khaki uniform of the AWB’s Brandwag, the 16-year-old plays dress-up as a soldier for the volk.
“I’ve been in this frame of mind all my life,” she grins. “My father,” she says proudly, “was a kommandant in the AWB, and he’s still like that, so that is how I grew up. This is very important – that we stand together as a people. All those people who are the same must unite. It means the world to me.”
Hanekom – who is from Krugersdorp – was behind the table selling T-shirts and stickers, and signing people up for the newly reformed resistance movement at the long-awaited Pretoria stop of its nationwide roadshow this week.
Large numbers of the audience were under the age of 35. They wouldn’t remember Eugene Terre’Blanche, their leader, tumbling off his horse or being denigrated in a sex scandal.
To the children of the right, Terre’Blanche remains more than mere white flesh. When the 1994 election was won by their enemies, he warned the last Afrikaner generation of apartheid that things would fall apart. Now he reminds them of how he told them so.
There is a paucity, to some a void, of credible white leadership in South Africa, so the youth of the volk have only got Terre’Blanche to fawn and flatter. It is them who are helping the dairy farmer and ex-convict from Ventersdorp to make what could be the biggest comeback of his career.
In Pretoria, the youth gathered to immerse themselves in the doom drawn by their elders, Terre’Blanche’s gimmickry of a boere mystic enhanced by the surroundings. The hall where his supporters met this week is a fortress of the white right, although you wouldn’t know it from the outside.
“We want to rule over ourselves. So bring your brain-power, your might, your guns, your living God, the experience of your forefathers. I plead with you tonight,” glides Terre’Blanche from the podium.
“Yes,” he shouts, “we are back! And if you sign up tonight, tomorrow you’ll have a friend. Do it, sign up, before we get murdered out of oblivion!”
Craftily, the new AWB leadership has conjured up the Brandwag, an apparently innocuous cellphone club-cum-neighbourhood watch steadily growing a precious database of names and numbers, readying – says Terre’Blanche – for the impending battle for their ultimate freedom.
The Brandwag joining fee is R60 for a couple, R50 for singles. Children are free. Once in, members can order the uniform and have their name embroidered above the right pocket, under the emblem.
Out in the corridor, Jacobus Herculas de la Rey – the Lion of the Western Transvaal and unsullied hero of the rising Afrikaner youth – gazes at his fans from a charcoal portrait.
“I’m a Christian and I feel I know, I understand, this land because of that,” explains Hennie Bezuidenhout, a medical student at the University of Pretoria.
“My belief is it is the privilege of Afrikaners to bring the word of God to people on the African continent. So I mourn the fact (we) now have to … fight for our safety instead of doing what we are ordained to do.”
Like Hanekom, Bezuidenhout would prefer to desist from the race question. Hanekom says she doesn’t see herself as racist because, quite simply, “the Afrikaners are my people, and I belong with them. They stand for those things in which I believe.
“For some of our parents, like the parents of some of the white children at my school, it might be different. Some of them have been taken in by the ANC. But that’s over. Just like the blacks, we must now stand together and finally fight for what is ours.”
Hanekom admits that her father’s racism might have made it impossible for her to even consider the possibility of friendship with someone who is not white, but “I know what they do, the blacks”.
“I don’t have any black friends, and actually I’m not at all interested in having any, anyway. It makes me feel uncomfortable.”
Gys Kleyn, who is studying dentistry at Tuks, says he comes from a farm in the southern Cape “so why would I want to sit in some small place like Orania?”
He says this is the reason why they must engage in the last, supreme battle for the vast tracts of land that are theirs by law, like Stellaland and Goosen in the far North West, which were bought by the Boers from the traditional authorities with cattle in the 1800s. The detested British conned them out of the land and they never got it back.
Dramatic
But, Kleyn warns amiably, they surely will. The AWB’s intention is to make a formal plea at the Hague for their right to the land they perceive as being theirs, and, should this attempt fail, the leadership may consider a more dramatic course of action.
Out in the corridor, a young woman with a baby gazes at a romantic portrait of a Voortrekker hauling his wagon over the aria of the mountaintop, his wife and children captivated by his bravery. Inside the room, Terre’Blanche tells the teenagers about the contract in a suitcase that was all that remained when Piet Retief and his men were killed by Dingaan.
“God punished us with a government of a De Klerk,” he spits and rails, “and the new order was forced upon us. I ask you: what is it that you want? We’re a pitiful little nation, but we’ll never ask forgiveness for apartheid. Never!”
The air is heavy with guilt, transgression and anxiety. He needs to calm the audience down, especially the two teenage boys in the second row from the back.
Terre’Blanche remonstrates with the crowd, the boys taking it to heart: “What happened to us that we let this happen? We don’t have to allow ourselves to go to nothing. After all … Jesus dies for us, for our sins. The strangers’ might is almighty and strong, but we have the right to be free and independent.”
The audience hummed an echo out of their trance. Some shifted around in their seats. Then, it was silence again. Breathing was arrogant. But the air was suffocating: it couldn’t wait for the crescendo. The connivance of the quiet applause was an exhortation for him to continue. So Terre’Blanche leaned forward, the light in these terrible times.
“It’s not about what we do,” he clattered, “but what we don’t do.”
For Bezuidenhout, Terre’Blanche surely has the bravest heart in the land. The student rose to his feet for the ovation and put his money into one of the buckets passed around the hall for donations.
“I think about my grandfather,” he says, “who was a hard Boer. When his black foreman died on the farm, he carried him into the house, his face soaked with tears. That taught me a lot. We’re not going to just be crept out of our own land. We’re not going to be crucified. I’m a fighter for God’s Afrikaners, and we will win.”
This article was originally published on page 4 of The Independent on Saturday on May 10, 2008