Latest news with #Anglo-BoerWar
IOL News
4 days ago
- Entertainment
- IOL News
Sleeping with the enemy; 40 years in jail for mother who killed her kids; Elvis and Hound Dog scandalise public
On This Day In History 1873 The name of the diamond diggings, De Beer's New Rush is changed to Kimberley. 1873 Sultan Barghash bin Said of Zanzibar closes the island's great slave market. 1883 The first regularly scheduled run of the fabled Orient Express train leaves Paris. 1916 Britain's Anglo-Boer War hero, Lord Kitchener drowns when the SS Hampshire sinks after hitting a German mine near the Orkney Islands. 1918 The Broederbond is founded in Jozi to advance the cultural traditions of Afrikaans. 1937 Henry Ford orders a 32-hour work week. 1941 World War II: At least 4 000 people who are hiding in a tunnel die after a Japanese air attack on the Chinese city of Chongqing. 1947 US Secretary of State George Marshall calls for economic aid to war-torn Europe. It becomes known as the Marshall Plan. 1956 Elvis Presley introduces his new single, Hound Dog, on TV, scandalising the audience with his suggestive hip movements. 1963 British Secretary of State for War, John Profumo resigns amid a scandal because of his relationship with a prostitute, who is also sleeping with a member of the Russian embassy.1967 Israel launches the Six-Day War. 1975 The Suez Canal opens for the first time since the Six-Day War, 8 years before. 1981 The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reports the first cases of Aids. 1998 Thulane 'Sugarboy' Malinga wins the WBF super-middleweight boxing title for SA. 2006 Islamic militants seize Somalia's capital, unifying the city for the first time in 16 years. 2019 The average person ingests 50 000 pieces of microplastic a year and inhales a similar amount, according to a study – the first of its kind – published in the journal, Environmental Science and Technology. 2023 Australian Kathleen Folbigg is pardoned after 20 years in prison for the murder of her four children, after new genetic research found evidence of gene disorders in the children. 2024 The world's only surviving wild horse, the Przewalski's Horse, is returned to the Golden Steppe of Kazakhstan for the first time in over 200 years. DAILY NEWS
TimesLIVE
6 days ago
- Entertainment
- TimesLIVE
‘Blood's Inner Rhyme' by Antjie Krog
ABOUT THE BOOK I came to know the country, I have enacted my life not better or worse than others, the harvest was not richer or poorer than that of others, though full of good shoots. But I knew that I was coming to die here next to the river; I came to look for it like the elephants do. Poet Antjie Krog returns to the landscape of her childhood. The Free State plains enchant her — it is her home and the home of her mother, the writer Dot Serfontein. In her 90s, Dot is frail and needs full-time care, but her intellect and sense of humour are razor sharp, and her writing is comparable to that of her daughter. In Blood's Inner Rhyme, Krog breaks the boundaries between genres and writes about this relationship that continues to fascinate and torment her. Using letters, diary entries and care-home records, the book explores creative influence, ideological disagreements and the realities of ageing. Krog exposes the insurmountable differences between generations but also shows the love and mutual admiration between two highly skilled writers. Beautifully and poignantly written, Blood's Inner Rhyme delves into cultural heritage, the Anglo-Boer War history, issues of land ownership and race, as well as romantic relationships across racial boundaries. The story of the relationship between mother and daughter, this is Krog's most personal book, as well as the most universal. EXTRACT Elandspruit, 1956-1968 My earliest memory is of lying on a high white bed underneath bright lights looking at my ordinary brown sandals. My father brought me because my mother was in another part of the hospital. We all went home together: I with a stretched urinary tract and she with a new baby. In truth, my earliest memory is that I smelled of pee; how I wet my pants on the way to the bathroom and hid in the toilets until the school bell rang. And my hands around my father's tie at the hospital. A white and blue striped tie. And both my hands grasping the tie. And that I made no sound. Pressing my face into the tie and hanging on with all my strength. And how a nurse pulled me away. And my father's unhappy concerned face. Pulled away from my father's arms, still clinging to the tie, seeing over the nurse's shoulder how his face became smaller and smaller until it was only a speck down there in the long hospital passage. It was bitterly cold outside. My mother came in with an armful of wood. She pushed the back door closed with her back and packed the wood next to the fireplace. The winter wind tugged at the roof sheets and windows. She stood by the window and said cryptically: 'Who stirs at my window so intimate and slight? Come in dear stranger, it's evening, it's night.' 'What are you saying?' 'Poetry. I am reciting poems about winter.' 'What is poetry?' 'Grown-up rhymes.' 'Do you know more?' Without turning to me, she said: The twigs a-swerve, the branches shake The noises that the winter make. There stands a mother with her child Alone in winter-winds so wild, And no-one there to see her tears And no-one there to soothe her fears The twigs they swerve, the branches shake It is the noise that winters make … 'I have to write an essay for a competition with the title 'In the blink of an eye …', but nothing has ever happened to me in the blink of an eye …' 'Pretend you are someone else. Take someone's life but colour it with your own life. Take a story from the Bible.' So I imagined the prophet Elijah looking out over the drought-stricken Free State, the plains, the grass, the dust, praying for rain, and wrung a phrase from DJ Opperman: 'Where Thy northern wind rolls the dry thistle and sweeps it over the shaggy fallows, a cloud appears as large as a man's hand.' 'That's very clever,' nodded my mother. I won a nationwide prize for under-twelve essays. My mother put on a record with Fauré Lieder and stared out of the window while tears rolled down her cheeks. Then she went over to the coal stove and burned stacks of typed pages. While my mother plaited my second braid, she said, businesslike: 'You will start menstruating one of these days, so I bought you a pack of sanitary towels and a girdle. They are in the cupboard by your bed.' 'The other girls in the hostel use tampons and plastic panties.' 'One never pushes all kinds of strange objects in between one's legs. You will hear from them again when they have ovary growths and miscarriages and heavy bleeding. And really, if you want to sit and sweat in plastic panties, I will get you a pair.' The packet of Dr White's sanitary towels and the girdle lay on a book titled It Is Time that You Know. It is difficult to negotiate an issue with my mother. When everyone along the hostel corridor started wearing delicate beginner-bras, she took me to Harding & Parker and insisted on a solid cotton Maidenform bra, because synthetic fabric 'makes you stink and sweat between your breasts'. My mother pressed her own hair against her head and cut it with kitchen scissors. She did not shave her leg or underarm hair or upper lip. I never saw my mother with pretty shoes. There were thick callouses under her feet from going barefoot all the time. She looked like no-one I knew. One day, unexpectedly, she took me to the cosmetic counter at Harding & Parker and said: 'Put makeup on the child so that she can get professional instruction in it.' 'But I don't want makeup!' 'That is strange. I thought you wanted to look like everyone else. You have been embittering my life since you had any sense because you wanted sharp-toed school shoes like everyone else and not healthy, round-toed Harley Streets, because you wanted a school briefcase like everyone and not a healthy backpack, because you wanted a plastic school tunic and not one of serge … so I thought: I give up! The Good Lord gave me a child who strives to be like everyone else. She wants to dissolve in the masses and one day be one of those women whose makeup accounts are larger than their bookshop accounts.' When I got into the car with my face fully made up, my brothers dove down behind the seats with laughter. 'Do not for a minute think you're special! Writing, like music, runs in families. Genetics. Nothing remarkable. You are an ordinary child. You will go to school and finish your matric. And this complaint that you cannot write poems because of the mundane bourgeois life around you, my dear, do not for one moment think a move to Paris or Lesotho will change pathetic writing into something special. For God's sake, sit up straight. And stop with that nervous twitch pushing your glasses into place.' 'Why do you write under a different name?' 'Because I am two people. The one uses her own surname and writes her own stories and earns her own money. The other one has a husband and children.' 'Which one do you want to be the most?' 'The one who is satisfied having only a husband and children.' 'So why aren't you?' 'Because I am not good enough. The writing is so that I can make peace with the fact that I am not the apron-mother or the just-had-my-hair-done-mother.' 'So why don't you only write?' 'Nothing, no book or fame or prize, would I trade for this life on the farm among cattle and sheep and chickens and you lot. Your father and I have a very interesting life together. It is something you won't understand now, even though you imagine yourself a small Inquisition.' I sat outside on the grass. Through the brightly lit windows I saw my large family going about their noisy business. Too many voices, too many sounds, too many bodies, too many demands. Through one window I saw my mother behind her typewriter. I knew she was busy writing a serial for the Sarie Marais and I knew how her face would look: muscles in her mouth moving as if voices were talking there, her eyes listening inwards. The next morning, she would take down the typewriter from the closed Singer sewing-machine table to bath the most recent baby. Afterwards she would take down the baby bath to hem sheets or make clothes. After dinner the typewriter would take its place again. A piece of my mother's was published in the Sarie Marais. I read the first part: I eventually agreed: I would go for a vacation in the Cape if the children didn't fight before we go. If there was the usual fighting, I'M NOT GOING. Everything went well … until the morning of our departure, when the devil's own brawl broke out amongst the lot. I said nothing, just went to the suitcase and unpacked my things. 'Surely you're not going to be that childish,' Pa said. 'It's not childish. When I promise a child something, I do it. It will give me great pleasure to send you away with the whole caboodle. I can read the books I've been wanting to read for years, will lunch at the hotel and sleep here at home with the dog, the shotgun and the wireless with me in the room.' He looked disbelievingly at me and walked out. Gradually the fighting quietened down. I heard him: 'She has unpacked her clothes, she is staying. Now you will all go and apologise to her over your fighting.' Antjie (11 years): 'We weren't fighting, we were arguing.' Helena (9): 'She's lying, Pa, she slapped Hendrik.' Antjie: 'I wasn't fighting, so I am not apologising. Ma can stay if she wants. See if I care.' Pa: 'Oh, so you'll look after the baby in Cape Town, will you?' It is a low blow, for her, but surely also for me. Antjie: 'Listen Pa, I'm sick of Ma. She loves making everyone around her unhappy. And now she's pleased. She has spited us and she enjoys that. Well, I'm also going to unpack my clothes. I'm also staying here. I'm not looking after Pieter and I'm not apologising.' Andries (7): 'Well, I will apologise. I'm not staying. Come, Helena, let's go.' Helena: 'OK, come, Hendrik! You apologise first. This is all because of you!' Andries: 'Bring Pietertjie, so Ma can soften. Ag please man, Antjie, come along, man!' Antjie: 'I won't. I'm staying here.' Andries: 'Oh, what a nasty person you are. It is best you stay behind.' They entered, pushed one another, pressed Hendrik urgently forward, hissing in his ears: 'Sorry, Ma,' he mumbled. Sanctimoniously the rest also apologised — here and there with a twinkle in the eye. 'Now, for heaven's sake, repack the suitcase and get into the car,' Pa clenched through his teeth. 'Antjie has not apologised,' I said. I was sick and tired of the whole business as well, but could one give in to her? 'Antjie, come and apologise to your mother or do you want a hiding!' he shouted angrily. 'I will not.' A bit tenuous, but well and true. At this stage my mild-mannered husband lost his temper: 'To hell with you both!' he roared. 'I am going to the Cape, even if alone. Those who want to go, get in! Those who want to stay, go to blazes!' I thrust the clothes helter-skelter back into the suitcase, slammed it closed and ran — right into my daughter. We sized each other up. 'Sorry, Ma.' With pursed lips. 'All right' … just as stiffly. 'And say one doesn't like it if someone writes about you? Because it didn't happen that way, why would I deign to slap Hendrik?' 'Look,' my mother said and covered the bowl of dough in a thick blanket. 'Some children's mothers drink, others steal or assault their children, or sit at home empty-headed or for hours at tea parties gossiping. Your mother writes. And like hundreds of children across the world, you must make peace with that: your mother writes, and she writes about things happening around her.' 'And what if I feel you may write and all that, but me personally you must leave out? I don't want to be in your writing.' 'If you feel I distort things, nothing prevents you from writing your own story correcting it. That right I haven't taken from you. But listen here, if you really don't want to be in what I write, I will cut you out and simply write about my four children instead of five … you can then work at accepting your extinction, forever missing from one of the few families of which something has survived their lifetime.' 'And say I don't mind extinction?' She stood quietly for a long time, head sunk forward, chin on her chest. Then she picked up a Pyrex bowl and threw it with an extra shift of her back against the wall above the stove, shattering it into a thousand pieces. Wide-eyed, Dora came in through the screen door. I hate my mother. When I put in the hem of my school dress, I made it as short as those of the other girls. 'Undo that seam,' she shouts, 'or do you want to look like a slut?' We are on the way to my cousin's wedding. I am wearing a beautiful black dress with gold-coloured studs. At the car my mother heads me off: 'Put something else on immediately! One doesn't wear black to a wedding.' I stand furious-faced. 'Fine! But remember: if they divorce later, it will be on your head.' I wait in the car outside the municipal offices. My irate mother has stormed in to confront a Mr Erasmus who has given permission for Eskom's electricity lines to be erected for kilometres on her farm and not on the farm for which the electricity was intended. Chalk-white, she gets back into the car. 'Did he chase you away?' She rests her head on the steering wheel. 'No, but I cursed him. Before I knew, I found myself uttering a terrible curse, forefinger in the air, Old Testament vocabulary and all.' 'Really, Ma, a curse of all things! He must be giggling behind his desk now …' She starts the car and reverses with speed. 'We'll see. We'll see!' 'I am not very hungry,' my father says, as he pushes the food around his plate, mildly irritated. 'In any case, it looks really … drab and tastes like tin.' 'Oh,' my mother, sarcastically, 'and you know exactly what tin tastes like!' I put down my knife and fork. Thank heavens. I hate offal and cabbage and now my father has relieved me of trying to eat it. My mother goes to the kitchen and comes back with a few Moirs bottles. 'If you want more colourful food, I am at your service.' She pours the bottles of food colouring over the food and stirs the offal to an emerald green, the potatoes to purple, the cabbage to vulgar pink. Bristling, my father leaves the table. My mother spoons the garishly coloured food into her mouth like a queen.
IOL News
23-05-2025
- Politics
- IOL News
The Great White Offload: AfriForum and the Export Scam of the Century
Just as the United States dumped its low-grade chicken parts into Africa through AGOA — wings, necks, gizzards — AfriForum and Solidariteit appear to have tried the same trick with what they perceive as politically expired volk, says the writer. Image: IOL Gillian Schutte Donald Trump was promised Christian farmers fleeing 'white genocide' in South Africa. What he got instead was AfriForum's charity box of surplus volk: out-of-work bouncers, hairdresser assistants, boarding house managers, and working-class families looking for a better life. If the contents of that consignment had been chicken instead of people, the U.S. Department of Agriculture would've shut it down for misleading labelling. Just as the United States dumped its low-grade chicken parts into Africa through AGOA — wings, necks, gizzards — AfriForum and Solidariteit appear to have tried the same trick with what they perceive as politically expired volk. It was strategic dumping — with a PR budget. Disguised as a refugee programme, this was AfriForum's Great White Offload. Ideological offcuts in the guise of human cargo. The roots of this export scheme reach far deeper. The poor white problem in South Africa emerged in the late 1800s and early 1900s, as economic shifts, drought, and the fallout of the Anglo-Boer War pushed large numbers of Afrikaners into unemployment and despair. These were white people falling out of whiteness — collapsing into visible poverty in a society premised on the illusion of white superiority. By the 1930s, this so alarmed the ruling elite that the Carnegie Corporation of New York was invited to investigate. Their report didn't call for inclusive upliftment. It recommended the structural elevation of poor whites into the formal economy — achieved by kicking Black people out of skilled jobs, redistributing state resources to whites, and creating an entire welfare system reserved for the pale and struggling. Apartheid picked up this baton with fervour. Job reservation, racial quotas, and whites-only benefits became the architecture of white respectability. But by the 1990s, as the democratic transition unfolded, the scaffold was dismantled. Suddenly, whiteness no longer came with guarantees — and many of those once sheltered by policy were left exposed. Video Player is loading. Play Video Play Unmute Current Time 0:00 / Duration -:- Loaded : 0% Stream Type LIVE Seek to live, currently behind live LIVE Remaining Time - 0:00 This is a modal window. Beginning of dialog window. Escape will cancel and close the window. Text Color White Black Red Green Blue Yellow Magenta Cyan Transparency Opaque Semi-Transparent Background Color Black White Red Green Blue Yellow Magenta Cyan Transparency Opaque Semi-Transparent Transparent Window Color Black White Red Green Blue Yellow Magenta Cyan Transparency Transparent Semi-Transparent Opaque Font Size 50% 75% 100% 125% 150% 175% 200% 300% 400% Text Edge Style None Raised Depressed Uniform Dropshadow Font Family Proportional Sans-Serif Monospace Sans-Serif Proportional Serif Monospace Serif Casual Script Small Caps Reset restore all settings to the default values Done Close Modal Dialog End of dialog window. Advertisement Next Stay Close ✕ Fast-forward to the post-1994 stage play, and the volk were now untouchables. They camped in informal settlements, hoarded cheap liquor, and haunted traffic lights. The Afrikaner elite, having jumped ship from volk socialism to neoliberal capitalism, turned their backs — unless the poor could be used as extras in the next episode of 'White Victimhood: Global Edition.' Enter Solidariteit, which became the Discovery Health of Afrikaner identity — premiums high, benefits selective. And then came Roets, who grew up in Solidariteit, broadcasting his resignation from the union, only to re-emerge in Washington — stroking his chin like a chipmunk on Ritalin, peddling the narrative of white victimhood to any outlet that would listen. He appeared on platforms like Tucker Carlson, warning of a 'white genocide' with the jittery earnestness of a man who mistook his PR script for scripture. Shortly after, the broader AfriForum brigade landed in the States — armed with press kits, moral indignation, and the trumped-up land expropriation story embellished just enough to pass for human rights advocacy. Their mission: distract from decades of complicity by reframing strategic abandonment as persecution. What followed was pure spectacle. Farm murders were rebranded as genocide, and economic reform morphed into cultural warfare. Roets preached in polished English to people who think Johannesburg is a city teeming with elephants, tsotsis (gangsters), and safari jeeps — depending on which Indiana Jones film they last watched. President Trump lapped it up — like any white supremacist handed a story that flattered his worldview. In this exported discourse, the strategic group was no longer white addicts with broken teeth and expired ID books. They were now noble victims — refugees in biblical proportions — waiting to be airlifted to American suburbia. But the export was selective. In true eugenicist fashion, Trump wanted white bodies that appeared intact — wholesome enough to fit the fantasy. So the architects of this refugee 'crisis' didn't send the barefoot meth heads or the cousin who thinks 5G causes liberalism. They sent the 'better poor whites' — the ones who could still say 'Yes, sir' without spitting out a tooth. Clean shirt. Church background. Desperation with decorum. Those who didn't qualify were left behind — still in shacks, still invisible. No funding drives. No Elon Musk tweetstorms. Just the slow erasure of those who had once patrolled the walls of apartheid and were now its abandoned children.
The Citizen
16-05-2025
- General
- The Citizen
Durban North residents called to honour animal veterans this Remembrance Day
THE South African Legion North Coast Branch invites the public to attend its annual Purple Poppy Parade on Saturday, May 17, at 10:30 at the Queen Nandi Mounted Rifles base at 101 Isaiah Ntshangase Road (formerly Walter Gilbert Road). Also read: Durban North babies and carers need temporary shelter This unique and poignant event pays tribute to the often-overlooked animal veterans of war — dogs, horses, donkeys, camels, pigeons, and even falcons — who served with bravery and loyalty alongside human soldiers in conflicts past and present. The purple poppy, worn internationally, symbolises remembrance for these unsung animal heroes. The ceremony will feature a formal wreath-laying, a dog display on the parade ground, and a social bring-and-braai following the service. Fires will be provided, and a cash bar will be available. Members of the public are encouraged to attend and take part in this special moment of reflection and gratitude. 'Service animals played a vital role in many theatres of war,' said Legionnaire Rupert Meyer, media liaison for the North Coast Branch. 'From horses carrying troops in the Anglo-Boer War to dogs detecting landmines in modern peacekeeping missions, their contribution is undeniable. This parade is an opportunity to honour their bravery and sacrifice.' History offers no shortage of remarkable stories. Among them is Sergeant Stubby, a dog who served in World War I, credited with saving an entire unit by warning them of a gas attack and even capturing a German spy. In another tale of valour, a homing pigeon named Cher Ami, gravely wounded during World War I, delivered a critical message that saved over 190 American soldiers from friendly fire. 'We may not all wear medals or uniforms,' added Meyer, 'but remembering these silent veterans reminds us of the broader cost of war and offers a meaningful way to teach younger generations about sacrifice and courage.' Wreath layers are asked to report at 09:00 with clearly labelled wreaths. Military participants should attend in Dress Code 1A, military spectators in Dress Code 1B, and civic representatives in official robes of office. For more from Northglen News, follow us on Facebook , X or Instagram. You can also check out our videos on our YouTube channel or follow us on TikTok. Click to subscribe to our newsletter – here At Caxton, we employ humans to generate daily fresh news, not AI intervention. Happy reading!
The Citizen
02-05-2025
- General
- The Citizen
Kaapsehoop wild horses endangered by illegal mining, poaching
'If we fail to protect them, future generations will only read about the horses instead of seeing them.' The wild horse population in Mpumalanga is down to 47 from 170. Picture: Adele Willenbrock It is still unclear who is supposed to protect the endangered iconic wild horses of Kaapsehoop near Mbombela, Mpumalanga. The horses are found within different pine and gum tree plantations in the area. Residents of Kaapsehoop, who are volunteering to ensure that the horses are preserved, have called on the government, business people and animal lovers to assist in saving the diminishing population. Adele Willenbrock, one of the community members taking care of the horses, said there was a need to preserve the horses for future generations. Willenbrock said the horses were endangered by illegal mining activities, disease, vehicles and poaching in the area. Wild horses graze just a few metres from a pine tree plantation in Kaapsehoop in Mpumalanga. Pictures: Adele Willenbrock 'Sometimes I use my own money to buy the resources used in taking care of the horses. I always travel around to check if they are safe. 'When I find that some of them are sick or injured, I interact with fellow volunteers and contact the veterinary surgeon to assist. 'As a community, we are trying our best to preserve this precious heritage, but it's hard. We need support from the authorities or businesspeople. ALSO READ: Ekhurhuleni responds to claims EMPD horses are starving, thin and weak 'If we fail to protect them, future generations will only read about the horses instead of seeing them. We had more than 170 horses, but now we only have 47. 'A few years ago, we lost 10 horses after a fire gutted the area. Recently, we lost six due to tick diseases, while some were killed by speeding vehicles. 'Last year, we rescued six horses who were found stuck in poachers' traps.' 'Horses are part of heritage' Some researchers have said the horses were left in the area during the Anglo-Boer War, while others believed they were used by people hunting for gold. Andrea Fourie, spokesperson for the Wild Horse Fund, said they had tried in vain to convince the Mpumalanga government to reduce the speed limit from 100 to 60km/h in the area where the houses are found. ALSO READ: Horses were way ahead of the internet: A history lesson 'About three years ago, we wrote a letter to the department of community safety, and they promised to attend to our concern, but nothing was done. 'This year in March, we lost another two horses after they were knocked down by vehicles. These horses are part of the heritage and local and international tourists visit our area just to see the horses. 'We are a small community of about 240 households and 80% of the population are doing tourism orientated business,' said Fourie. Wild horses graze just a few metres from a pine tree plantation in Kaapsehoop in Mpumalanga. Pictures: Adele Willenbrock She also appealed to the government to assist them in managing cattle herds that mix with the wild horses, as they infect the latter with diseases. Recently, the Mpumalanga legislature adopted a DA motion for the provincial government to implement strategies to prevent the animal population from diminishing. ALSO READ: Get ready for a reset: Just you, a horse and Mother Nature Tersia Marshall, DA member in the legislature, said: 'These mystical animals are not only of immense cultural and environmental value, but also constitute a vital attraction contributing meaningfully to the local tourism economy.' Dialogue with local authorities Jason Blockley, from the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA), said it was not their mandate to preserve them, but they were willing to assist. 'These horses are indeed a unique and much-loved feature of the region, admired for their mystique, beauty and historic presence. 'As the SPCA, our mandate focuses on preventing cruelty and responding to animal suffering. Since these horses are considered wild and free-roaming, our involvement is limited unless an animal is injured, suffering or in immediate distress. 'In such cases, we always assist to the best of our ability. Unfortunately, the challenges around protecting these horses are complex. ALSO READ: Meet the top-ranked racehorse in the world 'To prevent road fatalities, the area would need to be enclosed with fencing extensive enough to allow the animals to roam freely while also keeping them safe. 'This kind of infrastructure would be a significant undertaking and would require coordination among various stakeholders, including local authorities and conservation experts.' Blockley said the SPCA would welcome dialogue with local authorities, conservationists and community members to explore long-term solutions that balance animal welfare with ecological and tourism considerations. Mbombela municipality spokesperson Joseph Ngala said: 'We cannot always agree on a management model'. 'As much as they are part of the heritage, the horses are found on private properties, giving us very little chance to plan from a nature conservation point of view. 'As the city, we can ensure the areas where they roam are not developed so their habitat is not destroyed.' – masoka@
