Fleeing faux oppression: An open letter to the Chief of the US Refugee Admissions Program

To: Chief of the US Refugee Admissions Program:

Dear Sir/Madam,

I would like be placed on the list of persecuted white South Africans seeking a safe haven in your magnificent country. I am not a farmer, but that can be easily remedied.

I intend digging up my lawn and planting carrots, brinjals and chickens. I am familiar with livestock as I own a dog the size of a cow, but not as smart. And I sat on a tractor once. Will this be enough?

I should mention that I also feel very oppressed because on Thursdays, when Beauty comes, I have to leave the house for the entire day because I can no longer stand the sound of vacuuming and breaking crockery.

Sometimes she puts the radio on a Zulu channel. Although I cannot understand what the presenter is saying, he is almost certainly urging her to rise up and stab me as I watch rugby on the telly.

Thing is, Beauty hasn’t assaulted me. Yet. If you think it would strengthen my case, I could put up a notice at the local Spar asking for a volunteer to knock me about a bit.

How bad does the injury have to be? I don’t mind a small flesh wound. Just enough to get me into, say, New Jersey. But if it means losing an arm or leg, then I would have to insist on an apartment with a view of the New York skyline and a cushy job in Manhattan.

Someone in your government said our white farmers live in “horrific circumstances”. This is true. The tiny corrugated iron shacks they call home, the lack of proper sanitation, unreliable transport, robbers lurking on every unlit corner … oh, wait.

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I’m getting the 40 000 whites who live in farmhouses confused with the 30 million blacks who live in poverty.

We were a civilised country, once. You could ride on buses, go to the movies, walk on the beach, visit a park or go to a restaurant and it would be white people as far as the eye could see. White people only.

Or, in the parlance of the good old days, slegs blankes. It’s our own fault, really. We took our eye off the ball.

One minute we were letting Nelson Mandela out of prison and before we knew it, parliament was swarming in darkies demanding equal rights and justice for all.

Don’t expect us refugees to respect any laws in your country. Obeying the law can get you killed in South Africa.

We all drive at a steady 180km/h, accelerating outside schools because those little bastards will have your throat as soon as they look at you and we don’t stop for anything unless we want to wake up in the mortuary.

Enormous semi-naked black men with machetes and leopards on leashes roam the streets and office buildings with impunity. The carnage around the water coolers on a Friday afternoon is too horrific for words.

I hope you will be giving these humanitarian green cards to every white South African and not just the farmers. All of us are under terrible pressure and fear for our sanity and lives every minute of every day.

Sure, farmers can grow stuff like cabbages and lambs and know how to dig a hole, but a lot of us non-farmers are just as good with our hands. I, for instance, know a fair bit about origami.

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You never know when a 100 paper swans might come in handy. We white South Africans have very little apart from money, holiday homes, cars and jobs.

It’s the indigenous people who have everything these days. Well, I suppose there are still a few who have nothing, but even then, they have plenty of it.

While you’re doling out citizenships, you might want to send some cash to a group of local patriots called the Suidlanders. They are always trying to raise money for things that will come in handy when the ethnic cleansing really kicks off.

Stuff like medicine, two-way radios and “especially diesel fuel because of its numerous versatile applications in conditions of war”.

They drink it, you know, with cane spirits. It’s called spook and diesel. Three in a row gives you brain damage.

Anyway, best of luck with the 49 Afrikaner refugees who were flown to Texas. I saw pictures of them at the airport, with their haunted, hollow eyes and bellies distended with hunger, the poor things. Breaks your heart.

There’s a good chance these brave survivors of the genocide will help you to make America white again. Then again, there’s an equally good chance the moment they’re safely ensconced in their free houses, they will tell you to fu*k off.

That’s South Africans for you.

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