Is George Soros’s Open Society Behind South Africa’s Political Chaos and White Farmer Genocide?

A personal journey through violence, political theater, and the global forces squeezing family farms from Cape Town to the U.S. heartland.

On May 21, 2025, President Donald Trump decided to treat South African President Cyril Ramaphosa to a private screening—not of the latest Hollywood blockbuster, but of a video montage that, in true Trumpian fashion, aimed to spotlight what he called the “genocide” of white South African farmers. Yes, the lights were dimmed, the mood was tense, and the popcorn was nowhere to be found.

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South Africa is personal to me.

I spent two and a half months there in late 1986 and early 1987, during the height of apartheid—a 20-year-old blonde American girl hitchhiking through the townships with nothing but a sense of adventure and naivety as my companions.

To fund my 18-month, shoestring journey around the world—living on just $10 a day—I took a break from traveling while staying in the suburb of Mowbray, Cape Town, and picked up a short gig at the Hard Rock Cafe, selling t-shirts from a kiosk out front.

As locals passed by and caught the lilt of my American accent, they’d inevitably stop and ask, bewildered, “What are YOU doing here?”—the unspoken subtext being that Americans simply weren’t visiting South Africa then because of the violence.

I’d flash a grin and reply, “Buy a t-shirt and I’ll tell you why.”

It worked—soon, every Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt was gone, money was in hand, and I was back on the road, thumbing rides through a land as wild and storied as the emerald mines that, yes, helped make the Musk family fortune.

The adventures were as unpredictable as the landscape.

Hitchhiking 880 miles from Cape Town to Johannesburg, I found myself in a big rig with a drunken white Afrikaner who turned violent. I escaped that encounter bloodied but unharmed, having broken the driver’s nose in self-defense— he was such a bloody mess I’m quite sure I was the last female hitchhiker he would ever pick up.

Now, this was a case of White on White violence, but as I would soon learn, violence was steeped throughout all races of South Africa even back then.

THE ANC’S CULTURE OF VIOLENCE

I saw violence everywhere—often unprovoked. Much of it was Black on Black, tribal member against tribal member…. all of which seemed socially engineered even then.

It was during these dusty journeys through South Africa's heartland that I first witnessed the early machinations of the African National Congress (ANC). Even then, in the twilight years of the apartheid regime, the ANC's influence was palpable— while supposedly a force working to reshape the nation's politics through methods of peace — from what I experienced, it was far from that.

The ANC's history is written in contradictions: freedom fighters who promoted violence, revolutionaries who sanctioned killings, liberators who tolerated torture. And now, decades later, we see the bitter harvest: farms seized without compensation and white farmers subjected to murders so brutal they defy description.

I never thought I would see the end of apartheid only three years later, and while my heart sang when it finally ended, I never imagined it would lead to the even more wanton violence we see today.

Today, every South African president since Nelson Mandela has emerged from the ANC's ranks, inheriting both its liberation legacy and its darker impulses.

The ANC’s early membership was composed largely of traditional leaders and educated professionals, and its initial strategy focused on peaceful petitions and legal challenges to segregation and land dispossession. Over time, especially after the rise of apartheid in 1948, the ANC evolved into a mass-based liberation movement, sowing discord for decades, ultimately leading a violent struggle against apartheid and becoming South Africa’s ruling party in 1994.

A violent struggle I personally witnessed, time and time again.

I remember being picked up in northeastern South Africa by a white Afrikaner woman driving a van toward her banana plantation. As we crawled down a long, dusty road, I noticed her driving unusually slowly, her nose practically pressed against the windshield as she peered intently at the dirt path ahead.

"What are you doing?" I finally asked.

She turned to me, eyes momentarily leaving the road, and said matter-of-factly, "I'm looking for landmines. The ANC plants them regularly down our dirt driveways."

My heart nearly stopped.

When we reached the farm, we walked into chaos. A black woman had just attacked another with a shovel, splitting her head open after discovering an infidelity.

Another time, while heading to work at the Hard Rock Cafe, I was on a city bus sitting next to a black teenage girl when, without any provocation, an elderly black man behind her began to clobber the young girl over the head with his cane.

I could never figure out what prompted this, beyond perhaps the old man’s disapproval of the young girl’s audacity to sit on a bus next to a me, a white woman.

Ultimately, the violence I witnessed wasn't just White against Black or Black against White—it was human against human, tribal rivalries erupting into bloodshed that served no purpose except to perpetuate suffering.

But over the years, the focus of violence has shifted to white farmers, and major media has been spinning the tale that this is not the case.

The violence has become more targeted, more systematic in its selection of victims: white farmers, white Africans, white South Africans and those who have been calling it out;

People need to understand that the vast majority of these farmers trace their lineage to Holland, and later from England. Their ancestors' boots first pressed into African soil 350 years ago.

So when someone justifies the violence by saying, "These black Africans deserve their land back," I have to ask: at what point do we say enough is enough? Can 350 years of continuous farming, 250 years, or even 100 years not establish some claim to the land beneath your feet?

The cruel irony is that many of the perpetrators of these farm attacks did not originate from South Africa themselves, but migrated from neighboring African countries—they too are not indigenous to these contested lands.

THE TRUMP SPOTLIGHT

The world’s attention was momentarily seized when President Trump, in a display equal parts theater and confrontation, dimmed the lights in the Oval Office and played a video for South African President Cyril Ramaphosa. The footage showed a procession of white crosses—3,000 in all—lining a rural road. To be clear, these were not graves, as Trump reported, but a public art installation, White Cross Monument: a stark, visual protest against the murders of white farmers that have haunted South Africa for years.

Each cross represented a life lost, a family shattered. Thousands of white farmers have been murdered since the end of apartheid, their deaths marked by a silence that is as chilling as the crimes themselves.

While Trump’s recent actions have highlighted this silent attrocity, this White assault has been going on for some time:

Yet, the story is not as simple as some would have it.

South Africa is wracked by violent crime; in 2023 alone, there were 49 murders and 296 attacks on white farmers, according to the NGO AfriForum. The murder rate for white South African farmers is estimated at 150 per 100,000—higher than the peak death rates for soldiers in Iraq or Afghanistan, and far above the global average of 5.6 per 100,000. These attacks are not isolated to one race: farm workers, often black, are also killed. But the targeting of white farmers, who produce a disproportionate share of the nation’s food, has become a symbol of a broader crisis.

The South African government and many international media outlets insist that these murders are not genocide, but the result of rampant crime and economic desperation. The majority of murder is Black on Black, and tribalism, as I personally experienced back in the late 1980’s, but the target of violence has great changed, and the violence encouraged by chilling rhetoric from many South African political leaders—songs and slogans that call for violence against “Boers”—or the fact that over 95% of farm attacks go unsolved.

The truth is complex. Yes, black and white farmers, as well as farm workers, are all at risk in a country with one of the world’s highest murder rates. But the targeted nature and brutality of many attacks against white farmers—often elderly, often isolated—cannot be dismissed as mere coincidence or collateral damage. They are not the only victims, but they are, undeniably, in the crosshairs of a global plot.

The irony is not lost on observers that while Trump’s Oval Office screening was labeled an “ambush” as if ever major outlet received “the memo…”

….there has been no similar outcry or televised confrontation with leaders responsible for mass civilian deaths elsewhere, such as the ongoing democide in Gaza.

The selective outrage is palpable, and it raises uncomfortable questions about whose suffering is deemed newsworthy—and whose is not.

SOROS FINGERPRINTS: THE GLOBAL ATTACK ON FAMILY FARMS

And now we discover the puppet master behind South African politics—the hidden hand possibly guiding even the ANC itself. None other than George Soros's Open Society (OSF) - the same organization behind America’s recent migrant invasion - weaving its web of of dark influence across a nation already fraught with tension and historical wounds that refuse to heal.

Soros’s involvement in South Africa dates back to the late 1970s, funding “scholarships” and later supporting political groups and government initiatives. The Soros influence extends to shaping social and economic policies, often in ways that align with globalist agendas and not always with the needs of rural communities. President Ramaphosa’s meetings with Soros over the years underscore a government desperate for foreign investment, and open to political meddling while rural South Africans feel abandoned by their own leaders.

Just as in the United States, where family farms are increasingly squeezed by corporate consolidation, NGO heists, regulatory burdens, and land grabs, South African family farms—especially those owned by white Afrikaners—face existential threats.

In South Africa, these threats are compounded by violent attacks, land expropriation debates, and political rhetoric that often scapegoats farmers for historical injustices. The pressure on family farms is not unique to one country; it is a global phenomenon, driven by economic, political, and social forces that undermine independent agriculture and rural livelihoods.

These are random attacks. Many of them are highly coordinated, and from what we can tell, well funded:

Whether through policy, violence, or market manipulation, the result is the same: multigenerational family farms are disappearing, and with them, the stability and food security they provide.

Thank you, George.

“Without farmers, there is no food,” as highlighted by this Brit:

In both South Africa and the United States, the erosion of family farms is a warning sign—one that speaks to deeper issues of corrupt governance, NGOs, and the concentration of power. OSF’s involvement in South Africa has often focused on democratization and social justice, but the lived reality for many rural families is that their voices and livelihoods remain at risk, caught between competing interests, shifting political winds, and organized crime.

One young farmer captured on video the telltale crunch of footsteps—midnight raiders coming for his parent’s farms, and for their lives:

Many times it’s elderly farmers who are beaten in their own homes; today they now live behind electrified fences, a fortress mentality born not of paranoia, but of necessity.”

Meanwhile, the silence is not just global, but strategic. South Africa’s ruling ANC has cultivated deep ties with international organizations, including the Open Society Foundations.

BEYOND THE STATS

As I learned firsthand, these are not just statistics. They are families who sleep with weapons by their beds, who bury their dead with no fanfare, and who wonder if the world will ever care enough to ask why. Until then, the white crosses will keep multiplying, silent witnesses to a tragedy that too many refuse to see.

This is the South Africa I know—not from headlines or documentaries, but from the African dust that once clung to my shoes and the faces of people—Black and White—who shared their lives and complexities with a young American woman who happened to find herself witnessing history firsthand and now carries their stories forward.

As a postscript: After hitchhiking across South Africa, I later heard from my friends in Cape Town that they believed the only reason I survived my journey as a single woman traveling through the townships was “because of my American accent.”

I guess I was meant to share my story.

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