Beyond good and bad guys: The complexity of South African history
When some communities are allowed to embrace their history with both pride and criticism, while others are expected to reject theirs entirely, historical memory becomes a battlefield...
In a recent article that was published in the Daily Friend, Head of Policy at the Free Market Foundation (FMF) Martin van Staden made the argument that Afrikaners are, among other things, a culturally marginalised minority in South Africa. To support this claim, van Staden cited the example of Paul Kruger’s statue in Church Square in Pretoria, which has been the subject of repeated vandalism over the years. He rightly pointed out that such acts reflect an ongoing erasure of Afrikaner heritage, and they signal that it has no place in the democratic dispensation. This, in turn, prompts a deeper question; what drives this cultural marginalisation? Why do figures like Kruger provoke such hostility and seem incompatible with the democratic imagination of the country?
One possible answer lies in how South African society engages with its past. Rather than appreciating the full complexity of history, it often resorts to simplified readings. Historical figures are boxed into neat categories, either as heroes or villains, thus leaving no room for the messiness and contradictions that define real human beings.
Kruger is a case in point. Among many black South Africans – though certainly not all – he is symbolic of racism and oppression. Such a perception is comprehensible, given that Kruger, as the leader of the Zuid-Afrikaansche Republiek (ZAR), displayed a paternalistic attitude towards black communities that signalled domination under the guise of separate self-rule. However, to stop there is to miss another crucial layer of his identity. Kruger was also a nationalist figure who fought fiercely for the independence of the ZAR against British imperialism. For some Afrikaners, especially those with a strong sense of cultural identity, he is a symbol of resistance and self-determination.
When these complexities are ignored, it becomes easier to misread the reverence for a figure like Kruger. The assumption is often that honouring him amounts to defending his racism. But this view overlooks the fact that, for some Afrikaners, Kruger doesn't represent racial ideology, but rather a spirit of defiance against imperial encroachment. Stripping away this context flattens history and inflames cultural tensions. It turns a symbol of contested meaning into a one-dimensional target. In doing so, it shuts down the possibility of mutual understanding.
The same dynamic was at play in the Rhodes Must Fall movement. Cecil John Rhodes was rightly condemned as a racist and an imperialist. These aspects of his legacy are widely acknowledged. Yet, even he had another facet. As a Randlord, Rhodes made notable contributions to the development of the country. Rhodes University, for instance, was largely established through the Rhodes Trust, which is a legacy of the man himself. Even other public universities were built directly or indirectly through the wealth generated by figures like him. The infrastructure left behind, such as railways and highways, may have served colonial interests at the time, but it has since become part of the shared fabric of South African society.
To acknowledge this is not to sanitise or excuse Rhodes’s actions. It is simply to recognise that history is layered; people are too. And when attempts are made to fit them into simple moral boxes, the ability to engage meaningfully with the past is lost.
That kind of complexity, paradoxically, is implicitly present in how some South Africans engage with figures like uShaka kaSenzangakhona. While there are those who reduce him to a caricature by falsely accusing him of launching genocidal campaigns against the Khoi and San – and by claiming, without credible evidence, that millions died under his rule - these portrayals are neither accurate nor accepted in serious discussions about history. Within parts of the Zulu nation, and even beyond it, uShaka is remembered as a nation-builder and military innovator who forged one of the most formidable kingdoms in Southern Africa. His reign, nonetheless, was not without its costs. There is an awareness of the bloodshed that accompanied his expansionist campaigns and the tyranny that came to define the latter part of his rule after his mother’s death. Even so, some choose to hold this tension and revere him while remaining conscious of his flaws.
There is no mass campaign to deface his three statues in Kwa-Zulu Natal (KZN) or erase his legacy. If anything, there would likely be offence if such a move were ever proposed. This suggests that, at least in some cases, South Africans are capable of acknowledging historical complexity. The problem, regrettably, is that this generosity of interpretation is not applied consistently.
This inconsistency obviously has to do with the country's polarised politics of demons and archangels, which falls outside the scope of this piece. Nevertheless, it’s important to understand that this uneven openness to complexity is shaped by deeper ideological divides and not just individual views.
This dynamic helps explain why figures like Kruger and Rhodes are so widely misunderstood. When some communities are allowed to embrace their history with both pride and criticism, while others are expected to reject theirs entirely, historical memory becomes a battlefield rather than a bridge. The result is selective remembrance that fuels division and resentment.
To move forward, an honest engagement with the past is necessary. Historical figures, like the societies from which they emerged, are rarely one-dimensional. Recognising this complexity can foster greater cross-cultural understanding, strengthen social cohesion, and challenge the cultural marginalisation that some groups continue to experience today.
Ayanda Sakhile Zulu holds a BSocSci in Political Studies from the University of Pretoria and is an intern at the Free Market Foundation.
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There needs to be a canonical list of literature for African history that rejects Liberation Struggle presuppositions as dogma and paints much more honest view of how we transitioned from premodern to the modern era. A view of how we thought politically before the French/American/Russian Revolutions and afterwards.
This is a necessary and refreshingly honest reflection. What it shows, quite powerfully, is that cultural marginalisation doesn’t always take the form of explicit bans or policies—it often works through selective empathy. When some communities are permitted to honour their complex histories, while others are told their heritage is irredeemably tainted, a deep asymmetry sets in.
The example of Kruger is particularly telling. For many Afrikaners, he represents not racial dominance, but resistance to British imperialism and the right to self-determination. That this perspective is so easily dismissed—or equated with bigotry—speaks to a broader refusal to grant Afrikaner identity the same cultural dignity afforded to others.
The deeper issue here is the absence of cultural autonomy. Without the freedom for communities to steward their own narratives, preserve their symbols, and remember their heroes (flawed or not), there can be no real reconciliation—only coerced forgetting.
If South Africa is to move forward, it must allow all its people to engage history on their own terms. Anything less entrenches division and ensures that cultural memory becomes not a bridge, but a battlefield.
I explore these tensions further in The Blackface Republic, where I argue that only decentralized, self-governing communities can break the cycle of cultural erasure. You're welcome to read or challenge it here:
https://open.substack.com/pub/kotzefrederick/p/post-apartheid-post-republic-what?r=g7pe0&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=email