I Forgive You | #MyFridayStory No. 356

The first step to overcoming addiction is admitting you have a problem. The same is true of holding on to a lie. First, you must accept that your information might be wrong. Only then can you change your belief.

It was December 16, 2016—The Day of Reconciliation in South Africa, previously known as The Day of the Vow—when I walked into the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg, unprepared for the reckoning that awaited me. A young woman from Hammanskraal had recommended the visit, and I had little idea that it would spark a journey taking me from denial and guilt to soul-scraping introspection, transformation, and—finally—acceptance.

That day, I came face-to-face with the raw truth of my complicity in a system of racism that had dehumanised millions.

As a White South African of Afrikaner descent, I was born into a world that fed me lies cloaked in piety and self-righteousness. My parents and grandparents, good and God-fearing people in many ways, passed down a narrative they believed to be true: that we, the Afrikaner Volk, were a chosen nation, superior to all others. This narrative was rooted in centuries of colonialism, slavery, and the perversion of religion.

I believed it too—without question or hesitation. It was embedded in the fabric of my upbringing, reinforced by the Dutch Reformed Church and the secretive Broederbond, which sought to cement White supremacy under the guise of divine ordination. I grew up in a bubble where inequality was normalised, where the suffering of Black South Africans was invisible—or worse, dismissed as inconsequential.

In the museum, confronted by stories of unimaginable cruelty and resilience, I realised how wide the divide remains. Despite the end of Apartheid, the scars linger, and inequality persists as a chasm too vast to ignore. I saw my reflection in the glass displays—not as an innocent bystander, but as a participant in a system designed to privilege people like me at the expense of others.

This revelation has not been an easy one to live with. It meant admitting that I, too, am a racist—not out of hatred, but out of indoctrination, ignorance, and complacency. It meant confronting the truth that I’ve perpetuated harm, even when I didn’t intend to.

There are members of my family and friends who still firmly believe Black people are inferior. They don’t scream it from the rooftops; their racism is expressed covertly, implicit in their words and actions. To them, Black lives are disposable, less tragic to lose than a beloved pet. This quiet racism, insidious and deeply entrenched, breaks my heart.

How do you change an ingrained belief that feels as if it’s part of your DNA? I know I can’t force my family or anyone else to see the world as I now see it. But I believe in the power of stories.

I’ve decided to start with my own.

To my parents and grandparents, I want to say: I forgive you. You didn’t know the harm you were doing. You believed what you were taught, just as I once did. I forgive you for raising me in a way that blinded me to the humanity of others.

To my children, I must ask for your forgiveness. I raised you with the same flawed narrative, passing down prejudices I hadn’t yet confronted in myself. Even in a post-Apartheid world, I allowed the subtle and covert cues of a silently racist society to seep into our lives.

And to the people of South Africa, especially those I may have hurt through ignorance or action: I am deeply sorry. Please forgive me.

This is not about self-flagellation or seeking redemption for its own sake. It’s about accountability and doing the hard work of bridging the divide that has fractured our nation for centuries.

I know that by speaking out, I may alienate people I love. Some will see my journey as a betrayal, as turning my back on my Afrikaner identity. But this isn’t about abandoning who I am; it’s about reimagining what it means to be Afrikaner in the Rainbow Nation.

South Africa is a tapestry of 12 official languages, countless traditions, and vibrant cultures. It’s time we write a new story together—one where no one is left behind, and where every person is seen, valued, and included.

This is my personal quest—not one I will win in my lifetime, but one I am committed to. Change starts with knowing your brokenness, with accepting that I will always need help to unlearn and to do better.

Jesus taught us to mend fences, not tear them down. To love, not to hate. If I can use my story to lift others, to bring healing rather than division, then I will consider my task well begun.

The game is up.

The truth is out.

And the only way forward is together.

Have a great weekend and remember to be generous! 😄

As always, thanks for reading. 🙏

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