The Land Beneath My Fingernails (A South African Boer Son Refugee)

I was born to sun-browned fields
where the earth is rich with memory.
At dawn, the diesel engine hums like a hymn,
and dust dances golden in the first light -
the smell of home, of hard work,
of history pressed into the ground
beneath my fingernails.

My father stood here.
And his father too,
with calloused hands and eyes that saw
both thundercloud and harvest.
They fought the wind and storms,
and when needed, they fought men -
not for conquest,
but for the right to stand
on land they paid for,
prayed for,
bled for.

We did not steal this ground.
We traded, we toiled,
we brought forth life from barren hills.
We built fences, not prison walls.
We planted orchards, not armies.
And yet -
they say we are thieves.

They rewrite the stories
my grandfather told me
by the fire,
of wars and peace,
of sorrow and survival,
of honour in the face of death.
Were those stories lies?
Were the graves of our dead in vain?

They burn our bodies in boiling bathtubs,
rape our wives and children before our eyes,
then slaughter us like cattle - slowly,
laughing, proud.
They chant, “Kill the Boer, Kill the Farmer!”
and the world turns its back,
covers its ears,
calls it progress,
calls it justice.
But we have the photos,
the blood-soaked ground,
and the graves no one dares name.
I have heard the screaming -
a genocide.
But no headlines.
No trials.
Only silence.
And I know -
truth buried
is still not dead.

They call it justice now -
what feels like vengeance.

I see the fences falling,
fields untended, abandoned
pothole roads cracked like old hands.
And I see the fire spreading,
not just through the veld,
but in the hearts of men
who do not know what it means
to sow, to wait, to hope.

I am not afraid to work.
My hands are not soft.
My faith is not weak.
But I cannot lift my children above
a tide that rises
against them
just because of the colour
of their skin
or the prayers on their lips.

They call me coward
because I would leave.
But I would face a thousand storms
for my children’s peace.
I would trade the ache in my chest
for the joy in their eyes
when they walk a street
where no one curses their blood,
where merit still matters.

I love this land
with all the grief that loving brings.
And when I go,
I will take with me
the scent of diesel on dawn,
the heat of sun on copper soil,
the stubborn pride of Boere hearts,
and the songs my mother sang
in a tongue now hated.

But I will not take vengeance.
Only memory.
Only the echo of hymns
and the weight of unmarked graves.

Maybe the fields in America
will whisper the same in morning.
Maybe the sun rises there
just as tenderly.
And maybe my children
will not be taught to hate -
their name, their face, their faith.

So I look to the hills -
not to my heritage,
but to my Help.
For my help comes from the Lord,
Maker of Heaven and Earth.
He who watched us cross oceans before
will lead again
with pillar of fire,
with cloud by day.

Let them say I fled.
But I know -
I followed the voice
that called Abraham from Ur,
that led Joseph through prison
to feed his family in a foreign land.

I am not forsaking.
I am obeying.

And if ever I return,
let it be with arms full of sheaves,
with children who speak of freedom,
with songs that were not silenced.

Chris M. v/d Westhuizen '2025