What broke in a man when he could bring himself to kill another? What broke when he could bring himself to thrust down the knife into the warm flesh, to bring down the axe on the living head, to cleave down between the seeing eyes, to shoot the gun that would drive death into the beating heart?

Sorrow is better than fear. Fear is a journey, a terrible journey. But, sorrow is at least an arriving.

What broke in a man when he could bring himself to kill another? What broke when he could bring himself to thrust down the knife into the warm flesh, to bring down the axe on the living head, to cleave down between the seeing eyes, to shoot the gun that would drive death into the beating heart?

When I go up there, which is my intention, the Big Judge will say to me, Where are your wounds? and if I say I haven’t any, he will say, Was there nothing to fight for? I couldn’t face that question. (Ah, But Your Land Is Beautiful)

One thing is about to be finished, but here is something that is only begun. And while I live it will continue

The Afrikaner has nowhere to go, and thats why he would rather destroy himself than capitulate.

We do not work for men. We work for the land and the people. We do not even work for money.