Every foreign embassy in South Africa had their communications people working overtime on amphetamines by then and they heard the broadcasts, but didn’t understand the languages and had no translators, so they forwarded them via satellite to their home offices for analysis. Within an hour word came back that every member of staff and their families not in embassies or consulates already, were to stay wherever they were until arrangements could be made to pick them up, and under no circumstances to venture out because as unbelievable as it seemed, there was an anti-white genocide on the way.


Things always look perfect on paper, but are often less so in real life. Lieutenant-colonel Armand van Reenen was worried about the safety of his two sons and their families, but the eldest was saved by the General Officer in Charge (GOC) of Special Forces, while the other was part of the military attache’s small staff at the embassy in Oslo, and he defected as soon as the president launched the genocide. On the Friday evening when president Mkhize made his announcement about the fake coup, the GOC of Special forces had been ordered to have the white troops under his command killed because those guys were the biggest threat to the government. This worked with the other formation chiefs and the police generals, but general Dludlu had come up the line with some of those guys and he loved his men. He’d found among them brothers who saw him as a capable and caring officer and only cared about those traits instead of his skin color, so under the pretext of arranging to execute his orders, left the room and instead called the white commanding officers of the 4th and 5th Special Forces regiments at Langebaan and Phalaborwa, explained to them what he was ordered to do and instead ordered the shocked colonels to draw up paperwork for a fake zero-notice all-spectrum exercise at Walmansthal outside Heidelberg in Gauteng.


The colonels were to call every white soldier and logistics staff they had with orders to report to base immediately. They were to tell them what was going on and that they must draw as much weapons, ammo and other equipment as they could, then everybody was to get the fuck out and not come back. Within three hours of that call, South Africa’s active and reserve special forces complement was no more, with over 80% of the men and their families running for the bush and deserts of Botswana and Namibia, armed to the teeth and carrying the latest communication gear. It took a few more hours, but the minister of defense heard from black soldiers who reported for duty next morning what had happened and informed the president, after which general Dludlu was arrested on charges of disobeying a lawful command and disappeared, never to be seen again. It would take many years for the truth to come out, and it would be a sad story, but by then the guys who had managed to leave Africa often raised a glass in their general’s memory anyway.


If reality hadn’t matched the expectations on president Mkhize’s papers in the beginning, they didn’t work out too well even now. Mr. Murphy was along for the ride on this one, because thousands of whites and their kids spoke at least one black language which they’d learned on the farm or in school, be it Sotho, Venda, Xhosa or Zulu, and when those who had TVs and radios heard what the president had said, pandemonium broke out within minutes. All across South Africa whites began to pack their cars, load their weapons and bang on their neighbors’ doors, shouting that the blacks were coming NOW! There was no time for long discussions or thoughtful decisions. People had to get out of the suburbs and cities, but as the whites began to find out, this wasn’t going to be easy. The blacks poured out of townships on foot and riding everything that had wheels, heading for the white suburbs. Some of their brethren were there already, either working for whites who could still afford gardeners and maids. Some of them were committed Christians whose bosses had treated them well, sometimes paying a child’s school fees, at other times helping them with modest investments for retirement and even to buy a small home. Those who didn’t believe in doing what the president told them stood by their employers and just like in the 1994 Rwandan genocide, if you weren’t part of the program you became part of the scenery. Gangs of mostly young blacks hacked to death the whites and anybody who stood in their way, which often meant elderly maids and gardeners who could’ve been their grandparents. Then again, there were others who grabbed a spade or kitchen knife and turned on their unsuspecting employers under whose roofs they’d lived for years.


At old age homes, mostly black workers began to kill the elderly whites in their care and to search their rooms for valuables. Hospitals were next, where unlucky whites died in their thousands nationally. But it was in the suburbs where things really went to hell. Traffic was heavily congested, with panicked white people trying to get out. The blacks caught many of them there. Armed with everything from AK-47s supplied by the old uMkhonto we Sizwe cells which had never handed them in after 1994, to pangas (machetes), spears, wooden sticks and iron bars, they began to block the roads and attacked the whites who still tried to behave like they did during civilized days. While whites hesitated before opening fire, the blacks shot or dragged the whites out of cars and began to stab and hack them to death. It didn’t always go their way. Some whites put the pedal to the metal and plowed through as many blacks as they could, often getting away and leaving squashed or writhing bodies behind them. Many shot out of their windows as they drove over or around gangs of rampaging blacks. Others got out of their vehicles once stopped and fought like the possessed. That day, the most frequently heard phrase across South Africa was an angrily shouted “Fok jou, kaffir!” (“fuck you, nigger!”), before a black man died or a white one did. Many whites hadn’t been able to get out of their homes. Either they hadn’t figured out early enough what was happening, or had no car. There were dozens of them in every suburb across the country, mostly hiding in attics or fighting for their doomed lives. The suburban roads were becoming choked with vehicles, scattered belongings and corpses. While this was going on, every police unit hit the suburbs and tried to block the ways out. Armed with Z88 pistols (copy of the 9mm Beretta 92) and R5 rifles (short version of the Galil rifle), they added to the chaos and death toll, opening fire on the fleeing whites. Sometimes they were overwhelmed by those who drove through the road blocks or shot better than the cops did, and vehicles were heading for freeways at high speed. Nobody knew where to go or what to do beyond the immediate imperative to get out. Across South Africa, military units not yet deployed left their bases and headed for city exits to set up road blocks. They added to the slaughter, being more heavily armed and better trained, but whites still got through, mostly by going around. Millions of blacks were coming, and they killed all they could get their hands on. Still, the whites fought, many of them going down in modern scenes reminiscent of circled wagons against the hordes which overran them.


It was insanity on a national scale. The gunshots and smell of cordite in the air mixed with soul-searing screams of agony, fear and anger. Scenes of desperation and bravery, of savagery and death, of lucky escapes and madly surging adrenalin, all mixed with a pervasive sour smell of fear and driven by decades of pent up homicidal anger. Even diehard members of the AWB didn’t make the connection on that sunny September day, but there was a visible sign of apartheid with thousands of cars, bakkies (pickup trucks), buses and whatnot carrying blacks on the side of the freeways heading into town, and on the other side, over the concrete divide, thousands of vehicles loaded with whites leaving the cities. Such a thing hadn’t happened at any time from 1961 until 1994 under the National Party’s actual apartheid government, but it was happening now in the supposedly democratic South Africa. The irony was there for those who could see it, but nobody did, because one side was too focused on killing and stealing, while the other was too frantic with worry over its ability to escape to safety, wherever that turned out to be. Then just when it seemed hardly possible that things would get worse, they did…


Some whites had managed to get out of their homes on foot, then in their extreme desperation sought safety in churches. A long time ago, places of worship were the ultimate sanctuary which were kept inviolate by the fear of divine retribution of generations long past, then the rise of Christianity and the Catholic Church’s grip on temporal power. Things had changed over the last century. The KGB had looted Orthodox churches in the USSR, German and American soldiers had fought around the Monte Cassino church until somebody hit it (nobody knows which side struck first) and then both leveled it. In 1993, an APLA cell hit St. James’ Church in Kenilworth, Cape Town, with automatic weapons and grenades. They killed whites indiscriminately then, murdering many Ukrainian sailors in the process. The hysterical whites weren’t thinking straight. Maybe by then they just didn’t want to die without getting right with God. Who knows.


Two things were clear though. First, these people did not have a classical education. Had they had it, most of them would’ve remembered Virgil’s words in the original Latin- UNA SALUS VICTIS NULLAM SPERARE SALUTEM- which warned “the last hope of the doomed is not to pray for safety”. Second, they didn’t remember either the St. James’ massacre or the Rwandan genocide a year later, in both of which churches were nothing but target-rich environments. Desperate Christian whites died in large numbers, among them foreigners who had retired to South Africa. The blacks were on a roll and killed without asking any questions. This lack of discrimination would bite South Africa’s genocidal ass over a week later, when fleeing whites had come across such scenes and had the presence of mind to take some pictures on otherwise useless cell phones, which they handed over to foreign embassies to support their applications for asylum. Many of those pictures made their way onto newspaper pages and websites, where some horrified Europeans identified mothers and fathers they had thought safe until then. These incidents would add further impetus to the rising calls to act in South Africa, but this happened much later. Until then, whites felt like the world was ending around them.


End of Part 7. To be continued…

Mircea Negres

Port Elizabeth

South Africa