WeeklySA_AdminAMNESIA: To dismiss land dispossession as fiction is to ignore centuries of conquest, forced removals and economic exclusion. Themba Khumalo argues that meaningful land reform is about far more than farming…
By Themba Khumalo
A glass of fifteen-year-old single malt whisky sits before me, its amber depths gleaming like a trapped sunset in the room’s dim light.
To hold such a dram to the light is to witness liquid gold, a celestial tongue lubricant distilled from peat, smoke and patience.
It rolls across the palate with a fierce complexity—initially harsh, then unfolding into notes of sea salt, charred oak and sweet vanilla.
It is an elixir that commands respect, an unhurried masterpiece reminding me of what can be achieved when human effort aligns with discipline and historical depth.
There is something almost spiritual in knowing that something this divine is born entirely of the soil, the water and the ancient geology of the land itself. It is the very essence of the earth, captured in a glass.
How tragic, then, to descend from the sublime heights of Scottish distillation to the absolute nadir of economic commentary. I recently read a short, breathless piece on land reform so utterly unburdened by historical literacy or basic economic sense that it demands public dissection.
The monologue begins with the astonishing assertion: “We have never been dispossessed of any land.”
One must wonder which alternate reality this individual inhabits. To deny land dispossession is not merely uninformed; it is a bloody, violent erasure of documented history. The opinionista writes as though the issue materialised in the modern era, oblivious to the fact that dispossession was a centuries-long military project.
Long before legislation, land was seized through blood, fire and the devastating introduction of the Maxim gun.
One need only consider the century of conflict across the Eastern Cape frontier, where nine Xhosa Wars between 1779 and 1879 gradually annexed independent territories into colonial hands. Then came the ruthless suppression of the Bhambatha Rebellion in 1906, crushing resistance to colonial taxation and further separating the Zulu people from their ancestral lands.
To claim dispossession never occurred is to trample on the graves of those who resisted colonial conquest.
When military force ended, legislative tyranny followed. The Natives Land Act of 1913 did not begin dispossession; it codified it, restricting the African majority to just seven per cent of the country’s land. The apartheid regime later perfected this cruelty through forced removals. Millions were uprooted from thriving communities such as District Six and Sophiatown and dumped in barren, distant townships.
To insist that land dispossession never happened is historical amnesia of the highest order.
I then encountered the sneering observation: “Two people cannot even make a garden the size of a door and want land.”
This is the classic argument of the comfortable: that the desire for property is illegitimate unless the claimant is already an accomplished farmer.
Land is not merely somewhere to grow cabbages. It is an asset. It is collateral. It is spatial justice. It is the foundation upon which families build lasting security. Reducing a generational debate about wealth and ownership to the size of a “door garden” reflects a failure of imagination bordering on absurd comedy.
The commentary then turns to the state, asking why government, as the “biggest stakeholder of land”, does not simply distribute what it owns.
While state-owned land is extensive, much of it consists of national parks, military facilities, water catchments and terrain unsuitable for settlement or farming. More importantly, the land people need is where economic infrastructure already exists—near cities, transport networks and employment.
The state cannot simply hand out distant, unproductive parcels of land and declare inequality solved.
Finally, we arrive at the proposed alternative: abandon the land debate altogether, occupy empty CBD shops and organise stokvels.
The opinionista laments commercial rentals of R10,000 to R20,000 a month and suggests collective savings as the route into the economy.
Let us introduce some basic arithmetic.
A stokvel is an excellent instrument for community support and short-term liquidity. It is not a substitute for commercial asset ownership.
A business renting retail premises faces rent, utilities, staffing, stock, insurance and logistics. Those costs quickly overwhelm informal savings schemes. Suggesting that stokvels can replace foundational asset ownership is like bringing a wooden spoon to a knife fight.
Business requires capital, but capital flows most readily to those with leverage—and historically, few assets provide greater leverage than a title deed.
The assertion that only those who can identify the precise parcel of land from which their ancestors were dispossessed deserve restitution entirely misses the structural point.
The issue is not simply tracing family history. It is dismantling structural barriers created through centuries of dispossession.
People do not merely need to “find means” to participate in the economy; they need an economy in which the rules are no longer stacked against them.
To sidestep property relations in favour of renting vacant storefronts is to advocate a lifetime of economic tenancy. It is an invitation to remain a permanent customer in a house you will never own.
Now, if you will excuse me, I shall return to my single malt.
I appreciate this dram because every element that gives it life—from the water to the malted barley—was drawn directly from the earth. Even the distillery in which it matured stood firmly rooted in the land.
Unlike the argument I have just examined, which floats on the vapid air of economic fantasy, this whisky possesses something infinitely more valuable: grounded substance.
Comment
STOP DODGING THE REAL DEBATE
One of the greatest casualties in South Africa’s bitter debate over undocumented immigration has been the truth. For far too long, genuine public concerns about the state’s inability to manage its borders and enforce its own immigration laws have been routinely dismissed as xenophobia. That has done little to solve the problem. Instead, it has allowed politicians and officials to avoid confronting difficult questions that demand honest answers.
When civic movements such as March and March took to the streets, they argued that government had failed to deal effectively with undocumented migration and its consequences. Rather than engaging with the substance of those complaints, many critics chose to attack the motives of those raising them. Labelling every grievance as xenophobic became a convenient substitute for meaningful debate.
This deflection has not been confined to South Africa. Some governments on the continent have been quick to condemn South Africans while paying far less attention to their own governance failures, economic decline, conflict and corruption that have driven many of their own citizens to seek opportunities elsewhere. Migration is often a symptom of deeper problems. Those realities deserve acknowledgement alongside any discussion about South Africa’s responsibilities.
Equally troubling has been the response of our own government. Instead of demonstrating firm leadership, it has too often appeared hesitant, defensive and eager to reassure everyone that the situation is under control, even when events suggested otherwise. Public confidence is not restored through carefully crafted statements that gloss over obvious shortcomings. It is restored through visible action, consistent law enforcement and transparent communication. The result has been deeply damaging. Citizens who believe immigration laws should be enforced have frequently found themselves portrayed as intolerant or hateful, regardless of whether their concerns are rooted in legality, public services, employment, housing or crime. Such sweeping generalisations impoverish public discourse and make constructive solutions more difficult to achieve.
None of this excuses genuine xenophobia. Violence, intimidation and discrimination against foreign nationals have no place in a constitutional democracy and must be condemned without hesitation. Equally, migrants who are lawfully in South Africa deserve dignity, protection and equal treatment under the law. But rejecting xenophobia should never require abandoning legitimate discussion about undocumented immigration or the state’s obligation to manage its borders. These are not mutually exclusive positions.
South Africa deserves a mature national conversation—one grounded in facts rather than slogans, evidence rather than accusations, and policy rather than political theatre.
Until that happens, the country will remain trapped in a cycle of denial, deflection and deepening public frustration, while the real issues remain unresolved.
