
Who Is the South African Radical in the Oval Office Video Singing ‘Kill the Farmer'?
JOHANNESBURG—Julius Malema doesn't need to put much effort into stirring controversy.
He leads a party, the Economic Freedom Fighters (EFF), whose policies include seizing all forms of 'white-owned wealth,' including mines, land, and banks, for 'redistribution to poor black people.'
Malema has threatened that white South Africans could be slaughtered in a 'revolution' by poor black citizens taking revenge for decades of white minority rule under apartheid, an official policy that ended in 1994.
On Wednesday, Malema's image and words stirred trouble again as they were beamed into the lives of millions around the world from the Oval Office, as U.S. President Donald Trump hosted South African President Cyril Ramaphosa.
During the meeting, when Ramaphosa tried to counter Trump's claim that there's a 'genocide of white farmers' in South Africa, the U.S. leader told aides to dim the lights and roll the tape.
Some of the South African delegation shifted uncomfortably in their seats as Malema appeared onscreen bellowing the words, 'Kill the Farmer,' the title of a song he often sings along with thousands of supporters at anti-government political rallies.
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'Shoot to kill!' Malema yelled.
Another scene showed rows of white crosses at a memorial to slain white farmers in South Africa, where, currently, more than 70 people are murdered daily.
The roots of Malema's song lie in 1980s South Africa, when black protestors chanted the Zulu words 'Dubula ibhunu,' or 'Kill the Boer,' to represent resistance to the nationalist Afrikaner government that was oppressing them.
Malema has been tried twice in a court of law for assaulting white people, but was acquitted on both occasions.
Malema told The Epoch Times he 'proudly started causing trouble' when he was a toddler, when he says he threw his first stone at a police vehicle in Seshego, his home township in the country's north, in the late 1980s. 'Later, I graduated to petrol bombs,' he said.
He has been found guilty of hate speech on several occasions for inciting violence against whites, with each conviction overturned on appeal.
In 2020, after a white man allegedly assaulted a black man near a school in Cape Town, Malema instructed supporters at the scene to track down and 'attend to' the white man, according to the FW de Klerk Foundation.
He told them, 'Never be scared to kill,' as 'a revolution demands that at some point there must be killing, because the killing is part of a revolutionary act.'
EFF members, clad in their customary red overalls and berets to represent their communist ethos, displayed placards that read 'Honeymoon is over for white people in South Africa' and 'A revolutionary must become a cold killing machine motivated by pure hate.'
On another occasion, Malema said he's 'not calling for the slaughtering of whites, at least for now.'
When questioned about why he won't stop singing his infamous song, Malema responded that it's a symbol of his 'opposition to the [African National Congress's (ANC's)] capitalism' and his 'opposition to the white people that still control the South African economy.'
Malema said his 'ultimate hero' is Zimbabwe's former President Robert Mugabe, who in the early 2000s sent his 'war veterans' to confiscate white-owned farms, with scores of white farmers murdered.
Ramaphosa's spokesperson, Vincent Magwenya, told The Epoch Times that the South African government had 'no intention' of driving white farmers from their land.
'Zimbabwe, which is just across the border, has shown us that if we have no white farmers here, it would be suicide. Many of the white farmers are our biggest food producers,' he said. 'They must be protected, and the government is dedicated to improving their security and the safety and security of all South Africans, regardless of race.'
The ANC, which received 40 percent of the votes in an election last year, shares power with the Democratic Alliance (DA), which got just over 20 percent.
After Trump's assistants played the footage of Malema singing his 'Kill the Boer [Farmer]' song, Ramaphosa and his entourage told Trump that the EFF is a small party and its views don't represent government policy.
But professor Adam Habib, director of the School of Oriental and African Studies at the University of London, who's studied the EFF since it was formed in 2013, told The Epoch Times it has a 'powerful voice' in South Africa.
'EFF support is much smaller than the ANC and the DA, but they pull a consistent 10 percent of the vote come election time,' he said. 'The EFF has been popular since its inception and its members are always elected to parliament.'
Malema established the EFF after he was kicked out of the ANC in 2012 for bringing the party into disrepute. He had branded then-President Jacob Zuma a 'dictator.'
'Malema knows a thing or two about dictators because all his heroes, like Robert Mugabe and [former Libyan military ruler] Muammar Gaddafi, were dictators,' said Habib. 'The EFF is a racist, violent cancer in South Africa and the sooner we see the back of them, the better.'
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Over the period, 'St. Domingo' was depicted as a beleaguered colony, a site of fights over racial equality, a plantation economy unraveled by slave rebellion, a place where slavery was legally abolished, a diplomatic partner, and a player in European geopolitics. After 1804, the country became the second independent nation in the Western hemisphere, one expressly defined around the absence of slavery and colonial control. All Haitians, regardless of their ethnicity, were constitutionally defined as 'Black'; land was to be shared; runaway slaves were declared free the moment they touched its shores. In an age of revolutionary change, there was perhaps no more radical shift than this. For most white Americans, and especially enslavers, the white colonists of Saint Domingue experiencing these changes were a focus of racial empathy. 'When we recollect how nearly similar the situation of the Southern States and St. Domingo are in the profusion of Slaves,' South Carolina's governor wrote to the colony's General Assembly in September 1791, 'we cannot but sensibly fear for your situation.' The thousands of white French colonists who fled Haiti and arrived in American communities after a particular moment of disruption in June 1793 were met with open arms, receiving support from private groups, state governments, and the U.S. Congress alike. Dominguans of color, meanwhile, were painted as figures of terror. 'French negroes' prowled Southern nightmares. Southern states and municipalities quickly passed laws that prevented Black refugees from entering their borders (and requiring those present to depart). Rumors of connections between Saint Domingue and slave resistance abounded in Virginia after 1793 and shaped how whites understood Gabriel's revolt in Richmond in 1800. 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A pro-Confederate cartoon in 1863 showed Abraham Lincoln penning the Emancipation Proclamation with his foot on the Constitution, the devil on his desk, and a blood-drenched picture of Haiti over his shoulder. By this treatment, Haiti was an upside-down world: Black people were free and white people were dead, a depiction that normalized and celebrated the United States as a white slaveholding republic. The Vilification of Springfield's Haitians Taps Into a Long and Troubling History There were other American understandings of the burgeoning Haitian Revolution alongside this one. Some Americans looked to Saint Domingue and saw a just struggle for human dignity and racial equality. Alongside the Revolution in France, Saint Domingue sparked conversations about an oncoming global democratic wave rooted in universal human rights, one that would sweep away tyranny of all sorts. The fact that Americans, white and Black, made these cosmopolitan connections reminds us that, although the American war for independence was in the (recent) past, the American Revolution—the meaning, and quality of the new polity—was very much in flux. White Americans' reactions to events in Saint Domingue allowed for discussions about an American future in which slavery would not exist. The white Dominguans refugees arriving in Philadelphia in 1793 entered a state in which slavery was being gradually ended and in which white and Black activists were attempting to spread that ethos nationwide. As elsewhere, Philadelphia's philanthropic community rose up to provide them food, shelter, and succor, but the white Dominguans were not permitted to maintain their slaves (despite their best efforts to do so). In the 19th century, Americans of color would take Haiti as an emblem of possibility, one that helped bolster pride and engender action. Like the proslavery usage, these efforts were an attempt to make Haiti into an argument about citizenship, race, and rights in the United States. The Trump Administration's decision to grant Afrikaners refugee status flies in the face of U.S. procedures and practice in place since the 1980 Refugee Act, which, in accordance with the international definition, defines a refugee as a person with a 'well-founded fear of persecution.' This initiative bears many of the hallmarks of a Trump policy—it originates from a selective understanding of the realities on the ground; it has been conveyed, explained, and rationalized via a blend of bullying and bluster; above all, it is driven by a venal self-interest. At its heart, the policy seems to bolster Trump's picture of the dangers of initiatives that place value on striving for racial equality. In this view, the Afrikaners are quite literally pale-faced messengers: their plight fits snugly alongside Trump's attacks on institutions of higher education and the U.S. civil service as bastions of antisemitism and DEI initiatives. As such, the administration is overtly taking a side in a longstanding, and ongoing, battle over the meaning of the American nation. James Alexander Dun is a historian at Princeton University and the author of Dangerous Neighbors: Making the Haitian Revolution in Early America. Made by History takes readers beyond the headlines with articles written and edited by professional historians. Learn more about Made by History at TIME here. Opinions expressed do not necessarily reflect the views of TIME editors. Write to Made by History at madebyhistory@