Tag Archives: apartheid

The Atlantic Features: The Case for Reparations

Carlos Javier Ortiz

Two hundred and fifty years of slavery. Ninety years of Jim Crow. Sixty years of separate but equal. Thirty-five years of racist housing policy. Until we reckon with our compounding moral debts, America will never be whole.


May 21, 2014

And if thy brother, a Hebrew man, or a Hebrew woman, be sold unto thee, and serve thee six years; then in the seventh year thou shalt let him go free from thee. And when thou sendest him out free from thee, thou shalt not let him go away empty: thou shalt furnish him liberally out of thy flock, and out of thy floor, and out of thy winepress: of that wherewith the LORD thy God hath blessed thee thou shalt give unto him. And thou shalt remember that thou wast a bondman in the land of Egypt, and the LORD thy God redeemed thee: therefore I command thee this thing today.— Deuteronomy 15: 12–15Besides the crime which consists in violating the law, and varying from the right rule of reason, whereby a man so far becomes degenerate, and declares himself to quit the principles of human nature, and to be a noxious creature, there is commonly injury done to some person or other, and some other man receives damage by his transgression: in which case he who hath received any damage, has, besides the right of punishment common to him with other men, a particular right to seek reparation.— John Locke, “Second Treatise”By our unpaid labor and suffering, we have earned the right to the soil, many times over and over, and now we are determined to have it. — Anonymous, 1861

I. “So That’s Just One Of My Losses”

Clyde Ross was born in 1923, the seventh of 13 children, near Clarksdale, Mississippi, the home of the blues. Ross’s parents owned and farmed a 40-acre tract of land, flush with cows, hogs, and mules. Ross’s mother would drive to Clarksdale to do her shopping in a horse and buggy, in which she invested all the pride one might place in a Cadillac. The family owned another horse, with a red coat, which they gave to Clyde. The Ross family wanted for little, save that which all black families in the Deep South then desperately desired—the protection of the law.

Clyde Ross, photographed in November 2013 in his home in the North Lawndale neighborhood of Chicago, where he has lived for more than 50 years. When he first tried to get a legitimate mortgage, he was denied; mortgages were effectively not available to black people. (Carlos Javier Ortiz)

In the 1920s, Jim Crow Mississippi was, in all facets of society, a kleptocracy. The majority of the people in the state were perpetually robbed of the vote—a hijacking engineered through the trickery of the poll tax and the muscle of the lynch mob. Between 1882 and 1968, more black people were lynched in Mississippi than in any other state. “You and I know what’s the best way to keep the nigger from voting,” blustered Theodore Bilbo, a Mississippi senator and a proud Klansman. “You do it the night before the election.”

The state’s regime partnered robbery of the franchise with robbery of the purse. Many of Mississippi’s black farmers lived in debt peonage, under the sway of cotton kings who were at once their landlords, their employers, and their primary merchants. Tools and necessities were advanced against the return on the crop, which was determined by the employer. When farmers were deemed to be in debt—and they often were—the negative balance was then carried over to the next season. A man or woman who protested this arrangement did so at the risk of grave injury or death. Refusing to work meant arrest under vagrancy laws and forced labor under the state’s penal system.

Well into the 20th century, black people spoke of their flight from Mississippi in much the same manner as their runagate ancestors had. In her 2010 book, The Warmth of Other Suns, Isabel Wilkerson tells the story of Eddie Earvin, a spinach picker who fled Mississippi in 1963, after being made to work at gunpoint. “You didn’t talk about it or tell nobody,” Earvin said. “You had to sneak away.”

When Clyde Ross was still a child, Mississippi authorities claimed his father owed $3,000 in back taxes. The elder Ross could not read. He did not have a lawyer. He did not know anyone at the local courthouse. He could not expect the police to be impartial. Effectively, the Ross family had no way to contest the claim and no protection under the law. The authorities seized the land. They seized the buggy. They took the cows, hogs, and mules. And so for the upkeep of separate but equal, the entire Ross family was reduced to sharecropping.

This was hardly unusual. In 2001, the Associated Press published a three-part investigation into the theft of black-owned land stretching back to the antebellum period. The series documented some 406 victims and 24,000 acres of land valued at tens of millions of dollars. The land was taken through means ranging from legal chicanery to terrorism. “Some of the land taken from black families has become a country club in Virginia,” the AP reported, as well as “oil fields in Mississippi” and “a baseball spring training facility in Florida.”

Clyde Ross was a smart child. His teacher thought he should attend a more challenging school. There was very little support for educating black people in Mississippi. But Julius Rosenwald, a part owner of Sears, Roebuck, had begun an ambitious effort to build schools for black children throughout the South. Ross’s teacher believed he should attend the local Rosenwald school. It was too far for Ross to walk and get back in time to work in the fields. Local white children had a school bus. Clyde Ross did not, and thus lost the chance to better his education.

Then, when Ross was 10 years old, a group of white men demanded his only childhood possession—the horse with the red coat. “You can’t have this horse. We want it,” one of the white men said. They gave Ross’s father $17.

“I did everything for that horse,” Ross told me. “Everything. And they took him. Put him on the racetrack. I never did know what happened to him after that, but I know they didn’t bring him back. So that’s just one of my losses.”

Sharecropper boys in 1936 (Carly Mydans/Library of Congress)

The losses mounted. As sharecroppers, the Ross family saw their wages treated as the landlord’s slush fund. Landowners were supposed to split the profits from the cotton fields with sharecroppers. But bales would often disappear during the count, or the split might be altered on a whim. If cotton was selling for 50 cents a pound, the Ross family might get 15 cents, or only five. One year Ross’s mother promised to buy him a $7 suit for a summer program at their church. She ordered the suit by mail. But that year Ross’s family was paid only five cents a pound for cotton. The mailman arrived with the suit. The Rosses could not pay. The suit was sent back. Clyde Ross did not go to the church program.

It was in these early years that Ross began to understand himself as an American—he did not live under the blind decree of justice, but under the heel of a regime that elevated armed robbery to a governing principle. He thought about fighting. “Just be quiet,” his father told him. “Because they’ll come and kill us all.”

Clyde Ross grew. He was drafted into the Army. The draft officials offered him an exemption if he stayed home and worked. He preferred to take his chances with war. He was stationed in California. He found that he could go into stores without being bothered. He could walk the streets without being harassed. He could go into a restaurant and receive service.

Ross was shipped off to Guam. He fought in World War II to save the world from tyranny. But when he returned to Clarksdale, he found that tyranny had followed…”;  Read more 



ORIGINAL ARTICLE by @JAY GAINZ http://www.authoritysong.co.za




‘Election Night 2000′

George W. Bush is the 43rd President of the U.S.A – according to FoxNews, anyway – on the
antiquated television set of a dancehall in a favela of Rio de Janeiro.

Len’s finger lifts a rusted blind and he peers out the window. Outside, down the road, a convoy of
buses head down toward the club.

Bass begins to throb, sexy and menacing. He takes a long drag from the blunt between his
fingers. Exhales


“Let’s roll…”

A convoy of buses rolling through township dust. SOWETO, South Africa. 1976. School kids and
placard-waving activists disembark and head towards a school.

Streams of chiselled young men and Giselle-like women, early teens and older stream past me,
Lenny and the camera crew, and into the hall.

The activists are confronted by a cordon of apartheid cops. German Shepherds straining on their
leashes. Guns gleaming in the sunlight.

A revolver is slammed down on the cloakroom counter. Its owner reluctantly hands it over. A
truly honest soul checks in a stun grenade. The cloakroom clerk disinterestedly shrugs and makes out a receipt.

The revellers head into the club. We set up our cameras. The dancefloor is cleared. On
opposite banks stand two tribes.

There is a tense stand-off between the cops and the chanting activists.

The massive statue of Christ the Redeemer watches over us.

“Welcome to the Big Show…”

Four revellers – a guy and a girl from each side – step forward onto the dancefloor. A
brass-knuckled punch is thrown.

A teargas canister silently loops through the air. The crowd surges forward, unafraid anymore.

The intended target of the punch dodges it. The game is on. To the beat of themusic, the other
revellers begin to square up, each picking a partner, a target.

A schoolgirl rushes ahead, distancing herself, for a moment, from her comrades. A rubber bullet is

A punch connects. To the beat, combat is joined.

Mayhem as bullets and dogs and batons and dust and teargas swirl amidst the choking township

The battle on the dancefloor swings into full effect. Girls on roller-skates surge in with knives
then retreat.

The famous black and white snapshot of Hector Pietersen, mortally wounded, being rushed to

“This shall be the birth of our free nation…”

Behind a corrugated iron shack, two schoolboys dressed in khaki school uniforms stand. One holds
a Molotov Cocktail in his shaky hands. His friend asks,

“Mandla, what are you doing?”

Mandla lights the firebomb. Nonchalantly hurls it towards the armoured vehicles


“Sparking things off…”

This is the story of another of us Struggle kids. It’s also part of the series ’9 Dances Of Struggle, Vice and Ghosts.” Names and certain situations have been fictionalized.


So The Kid was there.

He was there in Soweto.

16 year-old kid on the streets on his way to class on June 16.

To be fair, The Kid was no model student.

As soon as shit hits the fan him and his crew head straight to the

local bottle store.

Loot the shit outta the place.

The Kid downed his first bomb of Smirmnoff on June 16, 1976.

See, for all the tragedy and the glory, we had two actual choices,

militarily when up against the Apartheid Machine


Blow the shit outta planes miles high in the sky over foreign lands


Arafat and crew.

Or. Take back the streets of home.

Make the townships ungovernable.

Make ‘em our areas.

The establishment wouldn’t be welcome here.

The greying hair is being scratched furiously now.

You’ve just slapped this schizo’s paw from your ass and he’s saying, Oh Kid.

If only we’d met then, dear boy.

The guy was a terrorist, Kid.

Don’t be fooled, ma comrade.

“Mandela was a terrorist.

Sat up there on that stand and preached communism.”

Crazy Hair looks bored as he purses his lips


“So we gave him 27 years to think about it…”

You’ve found yourself at this refuge 4 the lonely the and lost, mostly

broken down men, like yurself, now.

Guys – like Gary the DJ ex-cop who who was there in Soweto.

Guys like Marx, rehab escapee thinkin’ about making a run up North to the wilds

of Zimbabwe.

Mustachioed Inspector Cleauseau over there – his wife fleecing him outta

his final savings.

Slip off your sandals and tip-toe past burn-outs, aslumber.

Make you way to the back, to your nest.

The fluorescent light’s still on.

Slight ‘neath your covers.

Wring off your blue jeans.

The cot above you vibrates to the rhythm of the furiously masturbating AIDS volunteer

from Merseyside.

You bury yourself under your quilt.

All that remains of you.


Is a naked hand, reaching for light.

Henry, the stroke victim in the top bunk opposite yours stutters that

tomorrow’s Sunday, you should come join God’s choir.

The fluorescent bulb goes silent and the guy above you explodes into his

waiting tissue.


In our shared darkness, the room calms itself and begins to breathe in sync with the

science of sleep.

Sleeping with ghosts, us all under the covers now.”

“What happened is that the gangstas were the only ones to be able to handle the cops.

We killed pigs that day, there were SABC cameramen but between our mobs and the


Cameras got stolen…

There were many more dead on both sides than were shown.

As per usual the Regime thought that they could suppress things quickly.

But things had spiralled.

We’d moered them, given them a fucking black eye.

And the kids who died that day – they are heroes to this nation, J, no doubt at all –

but the guys who burnt the cops. These were gangsters.”

On the way back home that day everything was engulfed in smoke.

As I crossed the bridge to my part of town, I saw dead school-mates, unarmed.

Their faces half-blown off, gnawed by cop dogs.

And next to these dead school kids lay the occasional black or white man,

in police – and especially military fatigues.

Their throats slit.

Burning tyres around some of their necks.

My brother’s shoes.

I recognized my brother’s shoes.

He was months away from graduating.

He was better than me.

I joined Umkhonto the next day.

The Party was banned and – after what had transpired – nowhere to be seen.

The guys who signed us up were the same gangstas who’d moer’d the boers.


It was crazy times to be a kid, J.

Crazy times.

They guided us through Lesotho, sometimes Mozambique or Botswana, Angola.

We traveled there in smart hijacked cars which were untraceable.

Because that what’s in demand over the border.

And on the return trip, our tyres were bulging with Mandrax.

‘Cos that’s what’s in demand down South.

The drugs are always quick cash in SA.

And cash = guns.

“Sanctions – busting.”

One Good Cop throws up his hands.

Smith and the Rhodesians had Unilaterally Declared Independence to avoid a hand over

to black power.

The world had cut us off.

Men like Trevor, were the guys who kept Rhodesia ticking.

He’s sardonic, resigned as he bows his head, chin in hand.

“And these new sanctions blockades from the same people who did

it to the previous rulers, who do you think, J? our present chiefs turn to for

their loot


“Comrade XXXX has been accused of

improper conduct

with the partner of Comrade XXXXXX…”

TK smiles, grips you, holding you back. Stage. He wants you two to hear

for yourselves what you’re getting into.

Not that either of you can no longer pontificate, nor object.

Nor. Reverse.

Given your own, uh-hmm, circumstances…

You’ve spent 14 million Rand on this friggin’ shindig.

2 X the price each of your homes.

Minus that piece-of-shit Mazowe barnhouse.

+++Kid’s love affair with the Cape Property.

From which she’s now fled.


An ole’ fogie named Richard Armour – with a name like that how the heck wasn’t he

playing for our side? –

“Politics, it seems to me, for years, or all too long. Has been concerned with left or right

instead of right or wrong…”

As the futures of the revolution bare their (admittedly) pert buttocks.

For bald eagles from the media, you turn to TK


“So this is what’s going to win it for us?”

The weariness, as J’ll point out.

Which The Kid ran away from.

All you can do is grip the laaitie’s designer shoulder pad, giggle, though you don’t really

mean it.

This was your play Ruben, you’ll never remind the kid.

And then. Smile. Re-assure. With humility


“This time, Ruben. This wins it for us. This time, I guess…”



And then there’s Rock ‘n’ this 20-something kid on stage who’s name also started with

a J.

AND the bloody mines thing.

Which we’d all fought for.

Which was always part of the plan.




“You’re doing this because of this girl aren’t you, J?

“Made a promise…”

“And Trevor knows you’re writing a book about it?”

“Yup -”

“You’re writing a book about politics and sex and crime?!


That’s a sure way to get shot, esse!” : Bull.

The Kid spent most of the 80′s drunk and high and a foot soldier in the armed struggle.

He lived the high life, he has this great story about him and

Brenda Fassie in Libya.

Gaddafi had a thing for Brenda and flew her and the crew over for an arms deal and a

music concert.

Muammar surrounds himself with these hijab-ed female commandos concealing

sub-machine guns made by his sworn enemy.

Brenda’s high as a kite and Gaddafi’s introducing his distinguished music guest

and Brenda grabs one of the concealed commandos and

lofts up the gun, like a trophy.

Gaddafi Laughed.

Guns are being aimed directly at this crazy, beautiful South African’s head,

but all she wants to do is. Dance.

And so, Muammar obliges.

In golden rays of sunlight, the Mad Dog of the Middle East and the Wild Girl of

South African protest song.


As sixty-thousand Arabs look on.

It all catches up, you know?

Funnily enough, when you returned to Banksy’s next time round, the Sopranos was on.

The epic saga was heading into it’s death spiral and there was Christopher being

smothered out by Big Tony’s love to Van Morrison doing Pink Floyd


“The child has grown

The dream is gone…”

The Kid managed to dodge the law all through the struggle.

Hosted guys like the current Prez, strategized with guys like my dad, took

his orders directly from



The Kid was no hypocrite.

Saw himself as a thug, fighting a war.

Got picked up time and time again – once, and this is how small the circles run –

by XXXX XX XXXX, head of hit squad CCB (Citizens. Co-operation. Bureau.)

and cousin to…u guessed it


Uncle Trevor XXXXX XX XXXX.

Anyhow, The Kid always turned down legal help from the Party.

Stood up for himself to expressionless grey old white judges.

And got off. Every time.

So, on the Soprano’s reality’s setting in.

The final showdown looming.

Tony’s crew is decimated and as he lays in bed, shotgun in hand,

the quote by the same guy who raged against the dying of the light.

Plays is in his – and my – mind.

Something about the ceremony of innocence, lost or something.

The blood-dimmed tide…

The Kid’s Struggle came to an end on the day he’d fought for all his life.

You’re having to be held up as they guide you to the voting booth.

So this is the day.

This is the day.

Your first vote as a Free South African.

Yet in this moment of triumph. Ultimate.

You can’t even make out the letters on the form.

But, still, you’re determined to have your say, in this new booze-rayed Nation.

But it’s all just so bloody blurred.

You finally manage an ‘X’ in a box, clearest.

They found you collapsed in that voting booth.

In your hand is gripped the culmination of your Struggle.

With an X, your vote etched for the Party of Apartheid.

You’d voted National Party.

Before passing flat-out,


“Collateral damage…” The Kid smirks, strolling off into that dusty Yeoville eve.

“Perhaps I Was Addicted To The Dark Side…”

Images play silently on a large Sony Trinetron T.V. screen. The ticker at the bottom of the screen describes the latest details relating to the images being viewed
The L.A. Riots.

Rodney King’s lips mutely ask why can’t we all just get along?

Reginald Denny steps out of his truck on live television. Helicopters circle – closing in for the money shot – as a brick violently knocks the blood red cap off his head.

The three of us look up from the plush green velvet couch we sit on. Beside the television, J carefully slides a shiny black vinyl record from its angry-looking sleeve.


A group of school kids – me, Sizwe, Rock included – are lined up at the edge of manicured green lawn on a sports field at Saints’.

An LAPD cop, mirrored Ray-Bans ‘n all, tracks a rioter through the sights of his high-powered assault rifle.

Us school kids dig the spikes of our running shoes into the white chalk of the starting line.

Aforementioned LAPD cop is being tracked down the stubby barrel of MAC-10 sub-machine gun.

The Sports Master holds up a starter pistol.

J places the shiny black disc into a vintage phonograph.

The solid wood-cased speakers of J’s sound system stare out at those gathered in his oak-panelled office – or ‘THE LAB’ – as it will come to be known in legend.

The stylus arm rises. The vinyl record begins to spin as the needle hovers over it.

The cop’s finger makes contact with the trigger as the stylus head gently drops down. Soft crackling.

The needle finds the record’s grooves and spins towards sound.

Then the cop squeezes the trigger.

The starter pistol lets off a “POP!”

The sound of gunfire. From a cop’s rifle, as the MAC-10 bursts into life.

NWA’s “Fuck Tha Police” gets the race started. Again.

SOWETO UPRISINGS: Tiyang Primary School: Meadowlands

re-blogged from AUTHORITY SONG @Jay Gainz

Maki Lekaba was a standard five student at Tiyang Primary School. On Wednesday June 16 1976, Maki went to school not knowing that anything out of the ordinary was being planned.


She was surprised when addressed by high school pupils from nearby Meadwolands High School at the school gates. The older pupils were attempting to recruit younger pupils in the march against oppression. Maki had no idea that Afrikaans was being used as an instrument of oppression by the apartheid government. She joined the march against Afrikaans as a medium of instruction, in solidarity with other school pupils.

Maki followed the older pupils through Meadowlands. Along the way she witnessed the destruction of offices and liquor outlets related to the West Rand Administration Board (WRAB).


The house above is the former site of a WRAB rental office. On June 16 1976, this WRAB office was set alight and destroyed along with all its records and documentation. The students continued on a path of destruction, robbing a furniture truck and bread delivery truck before destroying a bar associated with the apartheid regime.


The two-storey structure pictured above is a former WRAB Beer Hall (Bareng). The destruction of this beer hall was the final act of destruction by students from Meadowlands. Students were forced to scatter into nearby homes as police converged into the area.

This is where Maki’s march ended. She returned to her home and was glad not be in school for the next few days.


SOWETO UPRISING SPECIAL : The Kid Who Had His First Drink On June 16 1976

See on Scoop.itCulturally Teaching

http://authoritysong.co.za @Jay Gainz

See on authoritysong.co.za

“From Apartheid Pass Laws to Stop and Frisk; Africans Must Resist Colonial Repression”

See on Scoop.itTHE LAW & INJUSTICE

Since the early 2000’s the NYPD has stopped and frisked nearly 5 million Africans and Latinos. That is not only racial profiling and police harassment. It is a tool of colonial repression and popul…

See on inpdumresistance.wordpress.com


See on Scoop.itCulturally Teaching

Symonds, there is a description of someone who has sustained a brain injury. After a period of unconsciousness he would be ‘unaware of his environment and be inaccessible . . . He is at first…

See on whatsimportantinlife.wordpress.com

Racism & Apartheid in S.A. prepared by the Anti-Apartheid Movement

See on Scoop.itCulturally Teaching

(by Samantha Tesner)

See on whatsimportantinlife.wordpress.com

MUST READ Article by @AndileMngxitama

An excerpt from andile-mngxitama’s article

“…Uncompromising commitment
Biko’s true legacy can be summarised as an uncompromising commitment to the total liberation of black people. Only in liberating blacks from white supremacy, from the structural violence of marginalisation and from degrading poverty can we start the march to true humanity and a society in which race would not matter. Needless to say, this dream has not just been deferred – it has been defiled.

South Africa is a white supremacist society under ANC management. Biko warned about this when he said: “If we have a mere change of face of those in governing positions, what is likely to happen is that black people will continue to be poor.”

Today, white men live best in this country and black women remain at the bottom. Blacks are gripped by the same inferiority complex that Biko found them in after Sharpeville: they are prepared to face death for an RDP house, a toilet, even a mere R12 500. They are not fighting to own their land and souls; they are fighting to be workers and recipients of crumbs from a state that does not regard them as human.

Blacks have no sense of themselves as a majority in power. We do not see a confident black person demanding high-quality service. Blacks without black consciousness are vulnerable to manipulation by agents of neo-apartheid, such as Julius Malema, who is using their suffering to fight for the ANC tender system that has benefited him and impoverished the people of Limpopo.

Blacks with no black conscious­ness have no memories, no sense of judgment or pride. As Biko said, they stand on the sidelines and watch a game they should be playing.

For South Africa to work, we need a new black, one who is imbued by the true spirit of Black Consciousness, who would reject the ANC integration that Biko described as “the white man’s integration – an integration based on exploitative values. It is an integration in which black would compete with black, using each other as rungs up the stepladder leading them to white values.”

The Mangaung wars are about this terrible competition, a battle in which nothing will be spared – not even the memory of Marikana’s massacred….”

Afrikaner nationalism and the policy of apartheid (PART I)

The National Party (NP) was established in Bloemfontein in 1914 by General J B M Hertzog after a nationalistic Afrikaner faction had split from the South African Party (SAP), a coalition of Afrikaner parties in power since the establishment of the Union of South Africa in 1910. The Union enjoyed dominion status under Britain, and the SAP supported a policy of close co-operation with the British in general, and English-speaking white South Africans in particular.


Its mandate was to strive for political independence within a Christian perspective. At first taking up the role of official opposition, a surprise victory at the whites-only general election of 1948 saw the NP becoming the ruling political party – and remaining in power, albeit increasingly by force, for more than four decades until the democratic elections of 1994. During its reign, the NP developed and implemented its policy of racial segregation known as apartheid, through which blacks were oppressed and marginalised.

By the late eighties/early nineties, it had to concede that apartheid was unsustainable and sought to initiate a democratic dispensation. Black majority rule was established, and the struggle to undo the effects of apartheid and establish equal rights and opportunities for all South Africans commenced. The NP, after a brief resurrection under the name of the New National Party (NNP), dwindled to the point of irrelevance.



The NP had its roots in the fierce Afrikaner nationalism that developed out of a history of conflict with the colonial powers, resulting in the Great Trek, the establishment of the Boer republics, and the Anglo-Boer War. As one of the leaders of the South African Party (SAP), the others being Prime Minister Louis Botha and General Jan Smuts, Hertzog created discontent within his party by overtly promoting South Africa’s interests above that of Britain, and by pursuing his vision of cultural segregation of English and Afrikaans whites in the country. In 1912 Botha omitted Hertzog from his new cabinet, and on July 1, 1914, Hertzog founded the National Party in Bloemfontein in the Orange Free State, where his support base was strongest, followed by the Transvaal (August 26, 1914) and the Cape (June 9, 1915). The party created a mouthpiece by establishing the Cape newspaper Die Burger, with D F Malan as editor, on July 26, 1915.

The NP continued to draw supporters from the SAP due to South Africa’s controversial participation on Britain’s side in the First World War (i.e., its invasion of German South West Africa), the Rand Rebellion of 1922, and the death of Botha in 1919. By 1920, the SAP was forced to form a coalition with the NP, although sharp differences about South Africa’s relationship with Britain persisted. After the Rand Rebellion, the NP and the Labour Party (which also protected the rights of white labour) entered into a pact that saw the SAP defeated in the general elections of 1924. Afrikaans was consequently raised to the status of official language, along with English, and a new national flag was accepted.

Re-blogged from:  My Fundi