Apartheid E-Book

Michael Morris

• Herausgeber: Sunbird
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

The one thing that looms largest in South Africa's future is South Africa's past – most especially the nearly five decades of division and conflict at the heart of one of the twentieth century's most infamous social experiments. Apartheid, An Illustrated History is a portrait of the defining experience of modern South Africa's transition from colonial state to democracy. What began in May 1948 as a vague, grimly ambitious project to interrupt history and engineer white supremacy at the expense of the country's black majority spawned forty-six years of repressive authoritarianism and bitter resistance which claimed the lives of thousands and pushed the country to the brink of civil conflict. A provocative postscript examines Apartheid's stubborn afterlife in the years since 1994, suggesting that the optimism and democratic vitality of the constitutional state hinge on South Africans avoiding simplistic views of the past that might lend themselves to demagoguery. For all its catastrophic and lingering effects, the book concludes, Apartheid was disarmed, ultimately, by the society's much longer history of inseparability.

Leseprobe

Description

The thing that looms largest over South Africa’s future is South Africa’s past – most especially the nearly five decades of division and conflict that marked one of the twentieth century’s most infamous social experiments. Apartheid: An Illustrated History examines the defining experience of modern South Africa’s transition from colonial state to democracy. What began in May 1948 as an ambitious project to engineer white supremacy at the expense of the country’s black majority spawned forty-six years of repressive authoritarianism and bitter resistance, which claimed the lives of thousands and pushed the country to the brink of civil war.

Journalist Michael Morris draws on the work of scholars and historians as well as contemporary reporting in an unsentimental and highly readable account, vividly complemented by photographs and cartoons. A provocative postscript examines apartheid’s stubborn afterlife in the years since 1994, highlighting the need for South Africans to avoid simplistic views of the past.

MICHAEL MORRIS has been a journalist since 1979, and Special Writer on the Cape Argus since 1997. He is the author of Every Step of the Way, commissioned by the South African History Project to commemorate the tenth anniversary of democracy in 2004.

Title page

APARTHEID

THE HISTORY OF APARTHEID

RACE VERSUS REASON – SOUTH AFRICA FROM 1948 TO 1994

MICHAEL MORRIS

JONATHAN BALL PUBLISHERS

JOHANNESBURG & CAPE TOWN

Contents

Contents

Introduction

1. Division by decree

2. Trial of will

3. Fortress apartheid

4. The stalemate years

5. The rapprochement

Postscript

Timeline

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Introduction

It’s clear to me that there’s a lot of unfinished business that we all carry in different ways. We will be dealing with the past of this country for the next 100 years, and I suppose that in our Western way, we tend to say, ‘We’ve done that, it’s time to move on,’ but the past always comes back to bite us.

Fr Michael Lapsley, 2004

In April 1990, in the dying days of apartheid, Fr Lapsley lost

both hands and an eye to a letter bomb sent to him in Zimbabwe.

The one thing that constantly looms large in South Africa’s future is South Africa’s past. Hardly a day goes by without something being said, often casually, that reminds people of how it was, how normal, how abnormal. It’s always an arguable condition. If South Africans can agree on the essential facts, that’s often where the agreement ends. After all, who you were – or were thought to be by the texture of your hair or the colour of your skin – made a world of difference, and, in many ways, still does.

The history of the past century, the fifty years that led up to apartheid, and the fifty years of its rise and fall, remains a zone of discomfort as much in public politics as in private memory and imagination. It is true for all human history that the past is obstinately present, an inescapable shadow of accumulated yesterdays nobody can quite shake off. But perhaps the special difficulty with apartheid lies in the dissonance of remembering.

For many, their stories of apartheid are conceivably inexhaustible, while others will wonder what more can possibly be said. How much longer, they will ask, can we dwell on all that? Aren’t the present and the future demanding enough? The exasperation embedded in this contradiction – the untiring accounting against the desire to put an end to it – arises possibly from a sense that there can be no such thing as enough; enough recalling, or atoning, or, indeed, of going back to make better sense of it. Even those who find themselves on the ‘wrong’ side in conversations about the past, appearing either bravely or hopelessly to be attempting a defence of sorts, or trying to get at this or that subtle point to show that ‘it’ wasn’t all bad, or ‘they’ weren’t strictly heartless, will feel this deprivation of attention. The same is true for the serious-minded few, conscious of the risks of allowing sentiment to run away with history, who show cool determination in testing orthodoxies that obscure often unexpected truths.

Doubtless, the victims of apartheid continue to feel it all the more urgently, especially as memorable events recede and with them, possibly, the clarity of emotion, or the public acknowledgement of how it felt at the time. For all the millions of words of testimony and recollection, admission, apology, protest and revision, the intimate confessions and the banal records of an extraordinary South African ‘ordinariness’, the idea of completion, of calling it a day and putting a lid on the constant seep of stories, is somehow impermissible.

But it may be that it is impermissible less because of a need to match some moral requirement of sustaining pity, shame or guilt than for the sobering fact that ‘apartheid’ itself is not wholly spent. It is not as if anyone is cynically conspiring to breathe new life into it – or could, even if they wished to – but that despite its failure and its constitutional defeat, the accretion of its consequences continues to shape the lives and thoughts, the expectations and the reach even of people who were, as they say, ‘born free’, born after the fact. The motive force itself, the object of fascination and shame – whatever it was, exactly – is not yet exhausted. In many ways, if only because past and future can only ever be a continuum, South Africa is still living an apartheid narrative, and even, in perverse ways, recreating it. It remains the story of our time.

* * *

Formally speaking, as a political programme, apartheid only began in 1948, though the term itself originated some time earlier, in the late 1920s. But the notions that impelled it, chiefly that what made people meaningfully – and usefully – distinctive was the colour of their skin, were a long time in the making.

In the early 2000s, when interest in the quest for the key to human identity was heightened by the sequencing of the human genome, human geneticist Trefor Jenkins of the University of the Witwatersrand offered a telling insight into the history of the differentiation of world populations. While skin colour had been the iconic feature of ‘race’ for as long as travellers noticed that populations living far away looked different from them, Jenkins observed, early travellers proceeding slowly, mostly by land, did not assign any special meaning to morphological differences in the peoples they encountered. He found that while Herodotus in the 5th century BC, Marco Polo in the 13th century and Ibn Battutah in the 14th, described both skin colour and the appearance of the people they met, they ‘categorized them by culture and religion only – as “idolaters” or “infidels”, for instance – not in categories grounded in physical appearance.’

There was no general term for race in the modern sense before long-distance ocean travel began in the mid-15th century. With seaborne exploration, the weeks or months of isolation that separated the familiarity of home from the strangeness of far shores yielded vivid observations about the physical appearance of newly encountered fellow humans. It was only in 1758 that Linnaeus classified Homo sapiens into four sub-species: H sapiens europaeus, H sapiens afer (West Africa), H sapiens asiaticus (Indonesia) and H sapiens americanus (north-east North America). Johann Blumenbach, a German medical doctor and comparative anatomist, distinguished in 1775 between people of south-east and north-east Asia, naming his collection of European skulls ‘Caucasoid’ because he considered those from the Caucasus mountains to be ‘beautiful’, the most perfectly formed specimens, implying superiority.

In this way, observed differences were matched to a hierarchy of classification imposed in the service of what later came to be called ‘power relations’ exercised by agents of change, men (mainly) who possessed ships, guns, horses, knowledge of the latest science, and the written word, and were part of an enterprise in which trade, conquest and exploitation were by and large the assumptions of progress.

Genetic science’s thorough disarming of customary notions of racial genetics – the fiction of black genes or white genes, for instance – and its revelation of a common human chemistry that obliterated the concept of supposed racial predispositions to superiority or inferiority, came at the end of a century in which racism had sunk to its atrocious nadir in Nazi anthropology and the genocide it sought to justify.

It’s a matter of grim fascination that at the very moment of Nazism’s defeat, South Africa embarked on a mammoth social experiment that seemed to owe much to the brutish racial pieties of Nazi theorists. And yet this is almost certainly a deceiving association that obscures, more than explains, how apartheid came to be, and what it actually was.

* * *

By the second half of the 1700s, the essentials of modern southern African history – the emergence of a new and evolving regional society formed by contests over land and resources – were well established. The geography, wherever it could sustain life, was peopled variously by a permanent and spreading native white population of European descendants, a substantial community of slaves, the remnants of an all but decimated indigenous population of hunter-gatherers and herders, and legions of black farmers who, over centuries, had penetrated southward from central Africa.

On all their doings was exerted the alien force of faraway colonial administrations, first Dutch, later British, whose political and economic designs – which invariably matched the interests of the white natives – drew soldiers, engineers, missionaries and traders into new and changing relationships with the landscape and the people in it.

The long presence of slaves in the Cape, and – when slavery was abolished in the 1830s – the mass departure for the interior of white farmers in the Great Trek, decisively influenced the social and political values in the region and sharpened the contests over living space and resources.

From the earliest days, access to water and grazing was the nub of competition and, where one or the other side dug in its heels, combat. Through resistance, conquest or flight, the patterns of expanding settlement brought ever-greater areas of the region into a whole, whose interrelated parts were claimed or occupied by inhabitants of contrasting customs, history, language, belief and appearance. What they shared was a dependence on the same basic needs, the limits of their common humanness. And survival often meant taking sides, finding strength in numbers, by identity or alliance.

Clan, tribal or ethnic identities and affinities formed and reformed as claims to agricultural and, later, mineral and economic assets were staked or challenged. To varying degrees, ingenuity, greed, common sense, even altruism, stimulated leaders and followers as they tried to make their way in constantly changing conditions. Violence was ever-present.

There was not a decade without armed conflict in the bloody 100 years of the pacification and then unification of the region, from Britain’s second and lasting occupation of 1806 to Union in 1910, which formalised the single multi-province state of South Africa. From a distance, it’s tempting to sketch the historical social behaviour of southern Africa to show that under the pressure of conflict, when communities felt compelled to take sides – as people always do when a fight is in the offing – the default option was always racial identity. Often enough, the distinctions between communities – though the blurring of the edges was already considerable, and would grow – could be drawn along the lines of ‘race’ as defined by skin colour. Broadly speaking, interests coincided, or seem from a distance to have coincided, with epidermal shading.

Yet many of the conflicts, and certainly the greatest and most costly of them, the South African War of 1899-1902, demonstrate the reverse. Not only was that war the most devastating instance of white-on-white violence – to borrow a phrase from the late apartheid years – but it was one in which all communities were embroiled, or played a part, if often unwillingly, in ways not predicated on skin colour or any obvious racial affinity.

However, where the conflict deepened the ethnic division in the white community between Afrikaner and English South Africans it stimulated a brand of nationalism that deepened racial division; the welling of ‘Boer War’ grievance in the ensuing decades was indispensable to the uniting of Afrikaners around the idea of ethnic supremacy ultimately embodied in apartheid.

The peace extracted in 1902 from the militarily and morally exhausting war – an enterprise tarnished by its origins in Britain’s hankering for the gold reefs of Paul Kruger’s Witwatersrand, and, especially, by the deaths of thousands of women and children in callously mismanaged concentration camps – presented its inheritors with the challenge of husbanding a new state into being and getting it onto its productive feet as painlessly as possible.

The primary objective of overcoming what was called, ironically, the ‘race problem’ (the schism between English and Afrikaner communities) so transfixed delegates to the National Convention that met in 1908 and 1909, that, with a nod from Britain, they hammered out a compromise founded on deferring for the time being the greater difficulty of the ‘native problem’. And, in the years from Union in 1910 to the turning-point election of 1948, black rights and dignity steadily diminished.

* * *

South Africa’s ‘native problem’, no less than its ‘race problem’, was, arguably, a difficulty of intimacy rather than of strangeness. If the intimacies were seldom actually affectionate, they amounted to a familiarity that registered in the growth of social and economic interdependence.

The wars, treks and treaties of the 1800s, quite as much as the toiling on farm, mine and factory floor, produced a more or less indivisible society in which no section could go it alone. This was more obvious than ever when, in 1947, the Pimville squatter leader Oriel Monongoaha likened Jan Smuts’s United Party government to a farmer whose cornfield has been invaded by birds: ‘He chases the birds from one part of the field and they alight in another part,’ Monongoaha mused. ‘We shall see whether it is the farmer or the birds who gets tired first …’

The inevitable tiring he foresaw, the resignation to the reality of a common belonging which no amount of chasing around will alter, echoes the earlier conception of South Africans’ indivisible interests penned by the novelist Olive Schreiner in Thoughts on South Africa (1923):

Wherever a Dutchman, an Englishman, a Jew, and a native are superimposed, there is a common South African condition through which no dividing line can be drawn … South African unity is not the dream of a visionary; it is not even the forecast of genius … South African unity is a condition of practical necessity which is daily and hourly forced upon us by the common needs of life; it is the one path open to us.

A hard fact of life this common South African condition may have been, yet, she argued, it would require determined political leadership to give it substance and direction:

For this unity all great men born in South Africa during the next century will be compelled directly and indirectly to labour; it is this unity which must precede the production of anything great and beautiful by our people as a whole; neither art, nor science, nor literature, nor statecraft will flourish among us as long as we remain in our unorganised form: it is the attainment of this unity which constitutes the problem of South Africa: How, from our political states and our discordant races, can a great, a healthy, a united, an organised nation be formed?

It is an ideal – or a truth – that the bulk of South Africans, and certainly all their political organisations (with the exception, perhaps, of the Liberal Party, which disbanded rather than be compelled to fail the test) have struggled to live up to, even those avowedly committed to non-racialism.

When it came to knowing who you were and being certain of your identity, whatever common patriotism may have been felt from time to time – perhaps in heady moments during the two world wars, or on rare occasions when a sporting team garnered more than usually unprejudiced hurrahs – the distinction most people fell back on invariably defined them as a member of this or that language group or ‘race’.

As a general rule, South Africans’ common condition has always been muddled by other notions of identity, of being more at ease with a narrower, more comfortable – an ‘own’ – sense of belonging. A telling and quite poignant reflection of this emerges from the childhood recollections of former president FW de Klerk, the undoubtedly courageous Nationalist leader who helped devise and preside over the dismantling of the apartheid state. When the De Klerks lived on a smallholding outside Krugersdorp in the 1940s, as he recalls in his autobiography, The Last Trek: A New Beginning, ‘my best playmates were the young sons of the black farmhands who worked for my father’. They swam together in the dam, hunted birds and played clay-stick shooting, a pattern of childhood fraternalism not uncommon to many white and black South Africans:

My best friend was Charlie, whose father, Jackson, looked after my father’s cattle and whose mother, Anna, did our washing. However, in those days, such friendships ended at the kitchen door. When my parents called me for dinner, Charlie went his way and I went mine. This seemed to me at the time – and probably also to him – to be the natural course of life.

It was, of course, determined by history and habit, and, not many years after 1948, it was intensified by design.

De Klerk remembers that while he and his fellow Afrikaner friends felt ‘no animosity’ towards black children – ‘just a strong sense of difference’ – their relations with English-speaking children were jarred by ‘strongly anti-British’ feeling. This was a sentiment critical to the gestation of apartheid. Ironically, one of apartheid’s consequences was a cementing of the interests of English and Afrikaner at the expense of those black playmates left behind in innocent childhoods.

A complementary footnote to De Klerk’s childhood recollections is his acknowledgement of an early forebear, Diana of Bengal, who was brought to southern Africa as a slave. This, he notes, was ‘a part of my genealogy of which we did not speak – and of which I did not know – when I was a child’. Such racial admixture is a common enough feature of South African family histories – and, according to genealogical research, of all Afrikaner families – but when so much was riding on ‘pure’ racial identity it was rarely owned up to. What you called yourself, or what others called you, determined virtually everything about how you lived.

Even in the 21st century, South Africans reach with easy familiarity for identities forged for them by historical figures they loathe, values they reject or forces they regard as spent. It is one of the ways in which the ghost of apartheid still haunts boardroom, shebeen, sports team and dinner party, and those long, impressively patient, determined lines of voters on election days. Asking South Africans to change their political allegiance is still often akin to asking them to deny who they are. But it is not universally true, or fixed, today, and it was not universally true of the past either.

* * *

Durable historical assumptions – arguably a measure of the success of apartheid thinking – tend to dilute with scepticism our reading of the account of National Party MP Bruckner de Villiers being carried shoulder-high into Parliament by coloured supporters who, in the 1929 election, had helped him secure the Stellenbosch seat. It’s as if, knowing what we do about Afrikaner nationalism, or of the seemingly obvious political options of those perceived to be its victims, such a thing cannot have been true, even in the pre-apartheid late 1920s. Nationalists, more than anyone else, put paid to such apparently unlikely emblems of unprejudiced politics by fastidiously defining belonging by race and, thus, removing the opportunities for their exhibition.

The assertion of Afrikaner ethnicity, of which apartheid was both the means and the end, forged solidarity and new alliances among its subjects or victims, and, in time, among its beneficiaries, even those who claimed to – and actually did – oppose it. Increasingly, South African truths could be spelled out, and made sense of, in black and white.

Historian William Beinart observes that ‘[e]ven if biological racism was not explicitly part of Nationalist rhetoric, its crude assumptions suffused everyday white language.’ Promoters of apartheid traded on fear, of domination or of the imagined consequences of racial mixing. ‘The killing blow in a white political argument,’ he writes, ‘was, put delicately: would you let your daughter marry a black man?’

The meanness of such reductions, and the outraged attention they attracted, meant, often, that the rise of Afrikaner nationalism earned moral rather than historical analysis, or that dispassionate investigation of the data often gave way to altogether more useful – self-serving or self-defining – indignation.

One of the more interesting and penetrating assessments of the origins and nature of Afrikaner nationalism – and one that ‘went beyond moral indignation’, as Hermann Giliomee and Bernard Mbenga note in their New History of South Africa – was Jordan Ngubane’s book, An African Explains Apartheid, published in 1963:

Apartheid is too complex to be dismissed as a mere political outlook or an ideological aberration. It is seen primarily as a way of life evolved in unusual circumstances for the purpose of guaranteeing survival to the Afrikaner and winning his right to a place in the South African sun. Fundamentalism, absolutism, repudiation, and race hatred are the main pillars of this life – not because the Afrikaner is incorrigibly backward, wicked, dishonest, or callous, but because they are integral parts of the only political heritage it was his lot to inherit from history. The trek into the interior and the decades in the wild plains of southern Africa cut him off from the mainstream of European civilisation. His numerical weakness exposed him to the danger of extinction. And the turbulent events overseas, liberalised European attitudes in the 18th and 19th centuries, bypassed him: he was fighting for survival against Dingane, Moshoeshoe and Sekhukhuni. His guarantee of security in this situation was to hold on to whatever was his own with a fierce tenacity; the fundamentalist dynamic, group exclusiveness, self-consciousness, repudiation, the temper of the slave owner, a blind love for his people, language and history, and fearlessness. These were integral parts of his culture and make-up, and their validity sprang from the fact that they had brought him to his moment of fulfilment …

Only when the Afrikaner nationalist saw that apartheid threatened his survival, Ngubane predicted, would he change his mind. And he was right. Schreiner was right, too. And yet, perhaps for the very reasons Ngubane identified, her truth would be resisted for decades.

But was it really just about Afrikaner nationalism, its special resentments and confined history forging a radical political narrative for which Afrikanerdom could – or can – be held accountable? Apartheid has always been different things to different people, not least to historians, many of whom felt themselves compelled to choose sides, less as a consequence of scholarship than of conscience. In this way, the contest of ideas about the history of apartheid was, or became – or could not be anything other than – a moral one.

There were those who argued that it was precisely the Afrikaner, with his old-fashioned, slave-owning values, biblical, hidebound ideas and frontier conservatism born of fear of attack and defeat, who brought apartheid into being. Along with this view was that the alternative of modernity, liberal kindliness and confidence in civilised ideas would correct South Africa’s history and enable gradual, peaceful change. Others saw it very differently; to them, apartheid was aligned with capitalist interests, and the conflict was not ethnic, or even strictly racial, but a class contest in which all whites – even, or especially, the liberal ones and the benign West to which they paid allegiance – benefited by exerting political, and thus economic, dominance over the majority. To them, profits rather than principles determined the evolution of white-dominated, class-based politics. In the later period of apartheid, these positions often defined the binary argument about who was to blame, and who deserved to win, and how.

This ‘liberal’ versus ‘radical’ controversy was closely studied by American scholar Harrison M Wright, who observed in The Burden of the Present, first published in 1977, that ‘wherever urgent contemporary social issues … weigh too heavily on the thin and complex web of hypothesis, evidence, analysis and imaginative recreation with which historians construct their understanding of the past … history becomes less a study of the past than a weapon of the present’. It was a ‘major failing’ of all schools of history in South Africa that there was often an ‘unwillingness, in the pursuit of causes, to recognise the extraordinary complexity of the South African past’. The challenge facing historians, he argued, was to

try to understand the web of circumstances in which past people found themselves … [and] that impersonal and uncontrollable social forces often determine the course of a society’s development, that reasoned social action does not always have the results intended and that there are not always particular individuals or particular groups that can be held responsible for every social problem or for every example of human misery.

It is a weakness that has been offset before and since by independent-minded historians, who have mined the depths of familiar episodes to bring to the surface sometimes unexpected data and insights. More than thirty years after Wright’s book was first published, historian Bill Nasson examined the apartheid experience in his 2010 inaugural lecture at the University of Stellenbosch, with a view to testing the tenacious idea of South Africa’s 20th-century abnormality, and the certainties about its history. Along with ‘familiar apartheid truths’, he noted, were other historical truths that remained true ‘even if they are unfamiliar’. South Africa was not, for instance, ‘completely without … the usual rhythms of modern history’. An examination of demography or population history showed, predictably enough, that apartheid had had ‘devastating long-term consequences’, yet also revealed altogether less likely ‘progressive historical transitions’: ‘From about three million people in 1880, South Africa had some 44 million in 2000. This period was one of almost continuously rising life expectancy, except for a slight dip in the 1918 influenza epidemic and, obviously, during the most recent years of AIDS attrition.’ But, compared to the war mortality and ethnic bloodbaths in Europe’s 20th century, ‘the abnormal thing about this country, speaking demographically, has been the security of human life … Even in the most mercilessly repressive stage of the anti-apartheid insurgency, life remained more secure than it had been in much of … twentieth-century Europe’. Over a little more than a century, Nasson observed, ‘mortality has declined, fertility has dropped, and households have become smaller. Urbanisation has increased, the proportion of agricultural work in total employment has declined, and the average level of education of the adult population has been rising. In any contemporary historical perspective, this is the standard portrayal of trends in all industrial societies …’ It was ‘only in its apartheid turn that South Africa became the true continental abnormality. In that, what matters is not merely the exceptional length and depth of its centuries of colonisation [but] that it went on abnormally, for longer than anywhere else.’

* * *

In the early years of apartheid, Nationalist leaders were obsessed about ensuring that their project would, in a phrase, last longer than anywhere else. Often, their own forecasts revealed their uncertainties and delusions about its intended eternity. In a town hall meeting in Beaufort West in August 1952, Eric Louw, then Minister of Economic Affairs, asked: ‘What is going to be the position of the small white minority in the year 2052, when the landing of Jan van Riebeeck should again be celebrated? Will the white man still be in the position he is in today?’ Needless to say, his gist was that in apartheid alone lay the guarantee that ‘the position of the white man can be maintained, politically as well as socially’.

The future is always the torment of nationalists, for the world doesn’t stand still, and the natural flux of society seems destined to erode their certainties. In the defiant idealism of their present, nationalists (no less, of course, than their social-engineering soul mates on the left) crave the assurance of succeeding tomorrows whose anticipated validation of the work in progress calls for near-fanatical endurance and an unswerving commitment to the fixed scheme.

The setback, the disappointment, the hold-up, are not taken as warnings from history, but merely as proof of the need to redouble every effort. Thus, in 1950, Hendrik Verwoerd was able to remark: ‘Always we have said that the road of apartheid is a long road … People assert that if, at the end of the next fifty years, six million natives will still be in the white areas, that proves we have jettisoned our policy of apartheid. It is untrue … The year 2000 is one of the stations on the road to our ideal. It is not the end …’ Yet, despite this outwardly confident assertion, for Afrikaner nationalists in the mid-20th century, the torment of their future was a torment of sums, the definition of their ethnic nationalism – the guarantee, as they saw it, of their survival as a volk – condemning them to the status of a numerical minority in a social, political and economic setting dominated by an overwhelming black majority.

Back in 1938, when Afrikaners were re-enacting the Great Trek and contemplating the sorry state of their ‘nation’ as the economically inferior inheritors of the fruits of Union, it was their own distinctness within the white community, and their own strength in numbers in this limited but important context, that mattered. The Trek centenary, as journalist Schalk Pienaar described it, ‘made the volk mightily aware of its very existence’. But it was an awareness of acute vulnerability too. Afrikaans had been acknowledged as an official language in 1925, and a new flag gave as much attention to the standards of the old Boer republics as to the Union Jack, but, economically, Afrikaners were at the bottom of the pile.

By 1936, half of South Africa’s one million Afrikaners were urbanised, but not many first-generation, city-dwelling Afrikaners had the skills or experience for urban jobs. Few Afrikaners made it through their schooling; a tiny number went to university. Signal economic successes had been achieved through companies such as Nasionale Pers, Santam and Sanlam (launched before 1920), Iscor and Escom (in the 1920s) and Volkskas (1934). But, by the late 1930s, the representation of Afrikaner companies in the economy remained slim – one percent in mining, three percent in manufacturing, eight percent in trade and commerce and five percent in the financial sector. There were just 20 Afrikaner business enterprises in all of Johannesburg, and by 1939 only three percent of Afrikaners held jobs in the professions.

Inevitably, given the economic conditions under which they battled to find their way in a modernising, fast-urbanising society – competing with the black poor of the cities for the only jobs they were qualified for – their grievances and vulnerability became closely aligned with an often fierce racial consciousness, and the sense that in their whiteness lay an unquestionable advantage. This was fertile ground for nationalistic activism, especially in the 1930s and 1940s, and the basis of steadily growing support for National Party policy after 1948. Ethnic supremacy was the key driver, but, as William Beinart observes, the ‘rhetoric of cultural solidarity sat easily with racial exclusivity and the use of ethnic power for economic gain.’