Red beret, red cap: The wearers are populists that offer theatre, not solutions

Mail & Guardian

4 days ago

Whether storming the Capitol or staging walkouts in parliament, rama of defiance often takes precedence over the slow work of governance. Graphic: John McCann/M&G
When Donald Trump launched his 2016 campaign, he electrified a disillusioned electorate with three words, 'Make America Great Again.' That bright red cap became a symbol of defiance against globalism, multiculturalism and liberal consensus.
Thousands of miles away, in a vastly different context, Julius Malema dons a red beret and declares South Africa for South Africans. He promises land without compensation, nationalisation of financial institutions and the dismantling of entrenched economic powers.
The context and audience may differ but are we watching the same populist theatrics under different lights?
It would be tempting to see these two figures as ideological opposites. One draws from the language of conservative nationalism, the other from radical, post-colonial liberation. But peel back the surface and a more unsettling truth emerges that despite their differences, both movements are powered by a similar engine, one that thrives on discontent, sharp binaries and the relentless search for someone to blame.
In both cases, the nation is portrayed as having been betrayed by elites, hijacked by outsiders and stripped of its rightful identity. The red cap and the red beret become more than symbols, they are uniforms of resistance. But resistance to what? And in service of whom?
The economic message, though packaged differently, often rests on the same populist foundations that the system has failed citizens, and only bold, uncompromising intervention can restore justice.
Although that argument has merit, especially in the wake of rising inequality and deepening mistrust in democratic institutions, the solutions offered are often blunt, simplistic interventions that appeal to the emotions but seldom hold up to the complexities of modern economies.
Such movements reduce the economy to a zero-sum game. In other words, for one group to win, another must lose. Redistribution becomes a battlefield, not a process of repair. Economic justice is stripped of nuance and transformed into a chant, ready for mass mobilisation but not for structural policy.
Behind the populist fervour lies another crucial dynamic, the nature of leadership itself. Populist figures often present themselves not just as representatives, but as embodiments of the people's will. Performance becomes the goal. Whether it's storming the Capitol or staging walkouts in parliament, the drama of defiance often takes precedence over the slow work of governance.
But real change requires more than charisma, it demands character. Leadership that transforms must go beyond volume and spectacle. It must mobilise across difference, acknowledge complexity and create room for multiple voices to shape the future.
And here is where the question of inclusion and belonging becomes central. Populist movements claim to speak for 'the people', but often narrow the definition of who 'the people' are and in turn they reinforce exclusion. True leadership understands that dignity must be extended to all. A society fractured by inequality does not need more division, it needs healing built on justice.
This also demands reflection from within. In South Africa, some of the loudest admirers of American-style populism come from quarters that simultaneously dismiss South Africa's potential. There's a troubling trend among certain white South Africans who replicate US right-wing talking points, lament decline and frame their homeland as irredeemable, all while ignoring the cracks in the system they idealise.
Fuelling much of this sentiment is a steady diet of outrage-driven content on platforms such as X, where curated feeds reward polarisation at the cost of perspective. Many opinions are dressed up as informed critique but are little more than algorithm-fed bias. And populist theatre thrives in this vacuum.
But the contradiction runs deeper. The same voices that criticise transformation policies such as broad-based black economic empowerment or land reform are silent when American politicians call for immigrants to be expelled or barred from owning land. Why is it acceptable for the US to control access to its economy, but a crisis when South Africa tries to ensure its citizens benefit from economic activity? Why is redistribution condemned in the Global South, but protectionism celebrated in the Global North?
This double standard is exposed when the US imposes 30% tariffs on South African exports, based on flawed claims of trade imbalance. Ironically, these punitive measures harm the very white farmers and exporters who often criticise transformation while relying on global markets. When global populism turns inward, it punishes those who once championed its simplicity.
Just recently, South Africa joined Brics leaders in Brazil to call for a more balanced global order and again this summit was dismissed by some in the West as subversive. The irony is that those who champion sovereignty in the Global North are often the first to panic when the Global South asserts its own.
These contradictions were made more stark when Trump recently praised African leaders for 'speaking good English'. That patronising remark, delivered without irony, reflects how African leadership is viewed, not as equal but as novelty. Which raises the question: why do some South Africans admire a man who sees the continent through a colonial gaze?
Equally concerning is the defence of the indefensible. Governance failures, collapsing infrastructure, endemic corruption and basic service failure are too often excused in the name of loyalty to liberation movements or fear of empowering reactionary forces. In the face of dysfunction, silence becomes complicity. Recently, the KwaZulu-Natal police commissioner publicly accused the police minister of obstructing investigations into political assassinations and colluding with criminal syndicates. When senior police officials feel compelled to blow the whistle, it is no longer a partisan concern, it is a national emergency; one which the president should not be taking his time to act on.
It is also worth asking why transformation in the public sector is tolerated, or ignored, while the same policies provoke outrage in the private sector. No one raises the alarm when our police force is overwhelmingly black, or when employment equity guides public hiring. But when companies are asked to diversify boardrooms, the cry of 'reverse racism' grows loud. Racial representation becomes a problem only when capital is at stake.
South Africa's post-apartheid promise was bold: justice, equality and prosperity for all. While millions are still trapped in poverty, that promise remains unmet. And the longer we defend incompetence out of fear or nostalgia, the further we drift from that vision.
And yet, something revealing happens when the national rugby or cricket team wins. Divides soften, flags wave with pride and a fractured nation briefly remembers its potential to act as one. But unity built on sport alone is fleeting. It cannot compensate for economic exclusion or governance failure. A nation cannot live on symbolic victories; it must deliver real ones.
Perhaps what connects the red hat and the red beret is not ideology, but shared desperation. Both movements arise from real fractures. But rage alone does not rebuild a nation. Leadership that thrives on division ultimately breaks the very societies it claims to protect.
In moments like these, we must return to deeper questions. What does it mean to lead with virtue? What does it mean to be excellent, not merely in achievement, but in character? For Aristotle, excellence (aretē) was not a title claimed or a performance staged. It was a habit, a way of being anchored in reason, justice and the pursuit of the common good. It required phronesis, practical wisdom, to discern what is right not only for oneself, but for one's polis.
Populism seduces us with certainty. But a virtuous democracy demands patience, humility and courage. The leaders we need are not those who amplify anger, but those who ask harder questions. What is owed to others? How do we build a society in which dignity is not rationed? How do we move from appearances of greatness to the practice of justice?
We should not be seduced by boldness that masks shallow thinking. Nor should we mistake disruption for direction. The leaders we need must be courageous enough to listen, humble enough to admit uncertainty and wise enough to build, not with applause, but with purpose.
In the end, the red hat and the red beret may not be so different. Both reflect societies searching for coherence in chaos. But if we are to move from theatre to meaning, we must return to virtue as the discipline of building something better. A democracy animated by virtue is not forged through volume, but through vision and ultimately delivered by us as citizens in service of each other.
Professor Armand Bam is the head of Social Impact at Stellenbosch Business School.