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colonialism
Trump's Ukraine Rhetoric Reinforces Imperialism, Not Peace
By suggesting that Russia's land seizures should be accepted due to its military losses, he legitimizes conquest as a political norm.
Feb 27, 2025
In discussions of Ukraine, it is important to decolonize Western perspectives and recognize that Russia's ongoing imperialism has only served to strengthen NATO rather than weaken it. This expansionist agenda did not begin in 2022, 2014, nor did it emerge solely as a reaction to NATO enlargement, an argument that Mikhail Gorbachev himself has dismissed. Instead, it has deep ideological roots, as outlined in the geopolitical strategies of figures like Aleksandr Dugin. The vision of a "Eurasian" empire has informed Russian imperial ambitions for decades. This influence has manifested not only in ideological writings but also in concrete actions, including the activities of Eurasian youth movements operating within Ukraine and earlier efforts by members of the National Bolshevik Party, who faced charges for threatening Ukraine's territorial integrity.
These fringe ideas gradually became part of Russian President Vladimir Putin's political strategy as he embraced nationalism for ideological support, similar to how far-right ideologies from the 1990s have been absorbed into today's Republican Party in the United States. This is evidenced by his speech at the World Russian People's Council, where he framed the war in Ukraine as a "holy war" to preserve Russia's cultural and spiritual dominance. The rhetoric of protecting the "Russian World" (Russkiy Mir) has justified expansionist policies under the guise of historical and religious continuity. In his 2014 speech following the annexation of Crimea, Putin likened Crimea's significance to that of the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, underscoring the sacralization of territorial conquest. More recently, the World Russian People's Council's declaration affirmed that Russia was engaged in a holy mission to shield the world from Western "Satanism" and that Ukraine was destined to fall under Russia's exclusive sphere of influence.
Understanding this broader history reframes Russia's aggression not as a reaction to NATO but as part of a long-standing effort to reassert imperial dominance. This colonial project aims to subjugate Ukraine and other former Soviet republics, treating them not as independent nations but as territories to be absorbed into a " Greater Russia." The narrative that Russia is merely defending itself against Western encroachment ignores the reality that its own actions have consistently driven its neighbors further toward NATO and Western alliances. Finland and Sweden's NATO bids, for example, are direct consequences of Russian militarism, not preemptive Western schemes.
A truly decolonial approach affirms Ukraine's struggle as one of self-determination against imperial rule, not merely a proxy in great-power politics.
The left has historically fought against imperialism in all its forms. Yet, some sections of the contemporary Western left have failed to apply their anti-imperialist principles to Russian expansionism, viewing NATO as the primary antagonist. True anti-imperialism requires solidarity with those resisting colonial domination, which in this case means supporting Ukraine's right to self-determination against Russian aggression. This aligns with the struggles of grassroots movements in Ukraine who have been on the frontlines of defending their communities from occupation and repression.
Resistance movements in Ukraine, such as those documented by Avtonom, 161 Crew's Ukraine War Reader, Solidarity Collectives, and the Ukraine Solidarity Campaign, provide vital perspectives that counter the dominant geopolitical framing of the war. Avtonom's reporting emphasizes the need for direct antiauthoritarian resistance to both Russian imperialism and NATO militarization. It argues that we should not be caught in a binary trap but should instead prioritize grassroots solidarity with those directly resisting occupation. The 161 Crew Ukraine War Reader offers firsthand accounts from antifascist fighters, showcasing the diverse composition of Ukrainian resistance, which includes feminist, queer, and anti-racist activists.
Solidarity Collectives highlight the crucial role of mutual aid and self-organization in sustaining resistance efforts. They argue that the war is not just about state survival but about defending communities against violent colonial erasure. Their work provides material aid to resistance groups, ensuring that grassroots fighters have the resources to continue their struggle. The Ukraine Solidarity Campaign's feminist manifesto demonstrates the gendered dimensions of war and occupation, highlighting how Russian aggression exacerbates patriarchal violence and restricts bodily autonomy. These perspectives disrupt the simplistic portrayal of the war as a clash of geopolitical blocs, instead framing it as a fight for the survival of marginalized and oppressed communities.
In juxtaposition, Russia's imperial vision is deeply intertwined with the Russian Orthodox Church, which has provided ideological justification for war. Patriarch Kirill, a key figure in the Russian Orthodox hierarchy, has framed the invasion of Ukraine as a holy war against Western decadence. This fusion of nationalism and religious orthodoxy reflects broader patterns of colonial domination, where cultural and spiritual narratives are weaponized to justify expansion and subjugation.
One of the most insidious justifications for Russia's aggression has been the portrayal of Russian-speaking populations in Ukraine as oppressed minorities in need of protection. This mirrors tactics used by Russia in Transnistria, Georgia's breakaway regions, and other former Soviet territories, where Moscow has manufactured narratives to justify humanitarian intervention. From a historical perspective, Ukraine has faced centuries of colonial domination by Russia. This suppression dates to the Russian Empire's Russification policies, which sought to erase Ukrainian language, culture, and autonomy. The Soviet era continued these efforts, most notably through the Holodomor, which devastated the Ukrainian population and remains a defining trauma in the nation's collective memory. Recognizing this colonial history is critical in understanding why Ukraine's fight for sovereignty is not merely a geopolitical contest but a struggle against historical oppression.
One of the central arguments put forth by some in the "pro-peace" camp is that NATO expansion provoked Russia into invading Ukraine. This claim assumes that Russia's security concerns are legitimate while ignoring the desires of Eastern European nations. Countries like Ukraine have sought NATO membership not due to Western coercion but because of real and ongoing threats. The claim that NATO provoked Russia also misrepresents historical facts: While verbal discussions about NATO's role in post-Cold War Europe occurred, no legally binding agreement prohibited NATO expansion. Gorbachev himself later clarified that NATO expansion was not a topic of formal negotiation during German reunification.
This should not be misconstrued with support for NATO. However, even those on the left that had previously favored neutrality and condemned NATO had a change of heart after Russia's hybrid, and then full-scale invasion of Ukraine. It was not only out of fears for security, but lack of other options. As a member of the Finnish political party Left Union stated "The consensus, as I understand it in discussions with comrades, is that we have not been able to provide any credible alternatives to NATO. We always emphasized that we had an independent, strong army that Russia would not dare to challenge—and since we were outside NATO, they had no reason to challenge us. After the invasion of 2022, such a defense policy was no longer perceived as adequate."
Ultimately, demands for Ukrainian neutrality and territorial concessions ignore the imperialist nature of Russia's war. Portraying Ukraine's resistance as merely a NATO-driven proxy war dismisses the agency of Ukrainians fighting against colonization. A truly decolonial perspective must acknowledge that Ukraine is not just a piece on a Western geopolitical chessboard but a people with a long history of resisting Russian domination.
That history informs current skepticism. Why should Ukraine trust new security assurances? The 1994 Budapest Memorandum was supposed to guarantee Ukraine's territorial integrity in exchange for giving up its nuclear weapons. Signed by the United States, the United Kingdom, and Russia, it offered security assurances against military aggression in return for Ukraine's commitment to denuclearization. However, the failure to uphold these guarantees severely damaged the credibility of international security agreements. The same applies to the Minsk agreements, which Russia also disregarded, claiming they were not bound by them.
For Ukraine, the failure of past assurances serves as a stark reminder of the limits of nonbinding diplomatic guarantees, especially in the context of an anti-colonial struggle. Despite explicit commitments from major powers to uphold Ukraine's sovereignty, Russia blatantly violated the agreement, while the United States and the United Kingdom, though condemning Russia's actions and providing military aid, did not fully uphold their commitments under the Budapest Memorandum. As global powers attempt to influence Ukraine's decisions, it is entirely understandable that Ukraine would be skeptical of security promises, particularly those tied to concessions like territorial loss.
The implications of U.S. President Donald Trump's rhetoric heighten concerns about the normalization of imperialism. In recent statements, Trump suggested that because Russia took land and suffered military losses, its territorial conquest should be accepted. This perspective does not oppose imperial power but instead reinforces it by treating territorial expansion through war as a natural part of global politics. Such a stance directly contradicts anti-imperialist principles, which reject land grabs as a means of legitimizing power.
This concept of imperialists taking land is not peace, it is domination. It legitimizes conquest under the guise of diplomacy and excuses similar policies elsewhere. Trump's rhetoric extends beyond Ukraine, as seen in his proposal that the U.S. should " own Gaza" after having funded its destruction. Such suggestions reduce the right to self-determination to a bargaining chip for powerful nations. Moreover, his policies on extraterritorial detention, such as using Guantánamo Bay for mass deportations, reflect the same colonial logic where land, borders, and even human lives are treated as assets to be shuffled and controlled by imperial powers. This is not about security or peace; it is about consolidating power through force and coercion.
While some in Ukraine and Eastern Europe may be bewildered by a segment of the Western left's inability to stand in solidarity with their struggles, there are deeper reasons for this disconnect. These deeply held beliefs are not merely the product of internet conspiracy theories, flawed praxis, or misinformation. The Western left is keenly aware of its own governments' history of exploiting humanitarian intervention, breaking promises to foreign nations, and engaging in imperialism. This skepticism dates to the Cold War era, when it resisted red scare tactics and anti-communist propaganda that were wielded to justify war and nationalism.
Building solidarity and trust between the Western left and Ukrainians requires bridging this divide. While those in the West best understand their own governments and institutions, Ukrainians fighting for survival are confronting a different imperial force, Russia. Yet to many on the Western left, Russia has long been the manufactured boogeyman used to justify imperialist wars.
Decolonizing the narrative on Ukraine means rejecting the imperialist framing that treats territorial conquest as an inevitable outcome of war and instead centering Ukrainian voices. Too often, discussions are shaped by Western geopolitical anxieties rather than the perspectives of those resisting Russian domination. A truly decolonial approach affirms Ukraine's struggle as one of self-determination against imperial rule, not merely a proxy in great-power politics.
Trump's rhetoric reinforces imperialism, not peace. By suggesting that Russia's land seizures should be accepted due to its military losses, he legitimizes conquest as a political norm. This logic extends beyond Ukraine—his proposal that the U.S. should "own Gaza" and his calls to use Guantánamo Bay for mass deportations further reflect a colonial mindset where land, borders, and human lives are bargaining chips for the powerful.
Solidarity demands more than opposition to Western militarism; it requires confronting Russia's colonial ambitions and supporting those fighting for sovereignty. A just peace cannot be built on the normalization of land grabs and forced submission. Instead, it must be rooted in resisting empire in all its forms and standing with those asserting their right to self-determination.
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Trump’s Plan for Gaza Would Make Colonial Plunder Great Again
In an interview, economist James K. Boyce discusses the relationship between war and economics, and how Trump’s talk of taking over Gaza and turning it into the “Riviera of the Middle East” is similar to the U.S. dispossession of Native Americans.
Feb 27, 2025
Can economics fuel conflict and war? Absolutely, and history is full of such examples. But economics can also pave the way to lasting peace, according to progressive economist James K. Boyce.
In the interview that follows, professor Boyce discusses the economics of war and the role that economics can play in peacemaking, including in places like Ukraine and Gaza, although he acknowledges that daunting challenges lie ahead for these two war-torn areas of the world. As for U.S. President Donald Trump’s plan for Gaza, Boyce puts it side by side with the dispossession of Native Americans in the United States.
James K. Boyce is professor emeritus of economics at the University of Massachusetts Amherst and a senior fellow of the Political Economy Research Institute (PERI). He is the author of Investing in Peace: Aid and Conditionality after Civil Warsand editor of Peace and the Public Purse: Economic Policies for Postwar Statebuildingand Economic Policy for Building Peace: The Lessons of El Salvador.He received the 2024 Global Inequality Research Award and the 2017 Leontief Prize for Advancing the Frontiers of Economic Thought. This interview is based on his seven-part video series released by the Institute for New Economic Thinking.
C. J. Polychroniou: Conflicts across the world have surged since 2020, making this one of the most violent periods since the end of the Cold War. The wars in Ukraine and Gaza have been most visible in the news, but there have been dozens of other conflicts, too. What lessons can we draw from history about the economics of war, the topic of your recent video series from the Institute for New Economic Thinking? How about if we start with the wars of conquest during the era of colonialism?
James K. Boyce: Economics is not just about mutually beneficial exchanges entered into by mutually consenting adults, though you could be forgiven for thinking so if your only acquaintance with the subject was a typical textbook. Real-world economics also is about coercive relationships in which one side benefits and the other loses. Such interactions—which can be grouped under the general rubric of plunder—involve not only outright force but also the manipulation of governments and markets, often occurring in the grey area between what is legal and what is not.
Trump often is described as “transactional” with good reason: For him, policy is about making deals.
The colonial wars of conquest were a particularly naked example of plunder. Slavery, the appropriation of lands and minerals, and the monopolization of commerce were common features of the time, thinly cloaked, if at all, by the pretense of a “civilizing” mission. But it would be wrong to imagine that plunder disappeared with the end of formal colonial rule. It remains a ubiquitous feature of the world economy, now sometimes cloaked by the veneer of “modernization” or “development.” Because plunder is inherently antagonistic—it pits the plunderers against the those whose resources and livelihoods are plundered—it can and often does morph into violence and war.
C. J. Polychroniou: What about more recent conflicts, like the wars in Bosnia (1992-1995) and Afghanistan (2001-2021)? How did economics figure into these?
James K. Boyce: Economics is not the whole story in these or most conflicts, but it is an important part of why they begin, how long they persist, and how they finally end.
Bosnia emerged as an independent nation during the breakup of Yugoslavia in the 1990s. Some commentators blamed “ancient ethnic hatreds” for the violence that accompanied Yugoslavia’s dissolution, but tensions arising from economic disparities among its provinces were also at play. Within Bosnia, three main “ethnic” groups lived side by side—Muslim Bosniaks, Catholic Croats, and Orthodox Serbs—and the fighting largely devolved along these lines (I place “ethnic” in quotation marks, because apart from religious origins the three were hard to distinguish). But another underlying axis of conflict was the deep economic gulf between urban Bosnians (often Bosniaks), who benefited in Yugoslavia from good education, health, and pension systems, and rural Bosnians (often Serbs), who were excluded from the benefits of engagement in the formal economy.
Once war broke out, opportunities for plunder became a key driving force in the conflict. Hardliners who engaged in ethnic cleansing—killing minorities and driving them out—not only sought to establish homogeneous enclaves for “their” people but also to gain personally from seizing the businesses, homes, land, and other property the victims left behind.
Economic incentives, in the form of promises of postwar reconstruction aid, played a key role in the end of the war, too, persuading the warring parties to sign the 1995 Dayton Peace Accord. Dayton, in a sense, was an aid-for-peace bargain. So economics was very much implicated in all phases of the Bosnian conflict.
The 2001-2021 war in Afghanistan was in many ways a resumption of the 1979-1989 war, with the difference that now it was the United States instead of the Soviet Union that occupied Kabul while the countryside largely remained under the control of the Taliban and regional warlords. As in Bosnia, pronounced economic disparities between urban and rural areas fueled the Afghan conflict, and the Taliban tapped into rural discontent. Wide disparities between Kabul and the rest of the country predated the Soviet and American invasions, and were further exacerbated by the wartime influx of foreigners and their money. Meanwhile, by controlling the opium traffic and taxing cross-border trade, the Taliban built a viable economic base of their own.
Economics played a central role in the U.S. war strategy, but it was not a pretty picture. In 2002, then-U.S. Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld instructed his senior aides to come up with “a plan for how we are going to deal with each of these warlords—who is going to get money from whom, on what basis, in exchange for what, what is the quid pro quo, etc.” The U.S. government poured nearly $1 trillion into Afghanistan—$145 billion in reconstruction aid plus $837 billion in military expenditures—this in a country with a GDP of less than $20 billion. War “became the Afghan economy,” as The New York Times put it. The Afghan leadership, unsurprisingly, was more attentive to the demands of foreign donors than to the needs of their own citizens. Massive corruption fueled by external assistance fatally undermined any possibility of building a legitimate and effective state. “Our money was empowering a lot of bad people,” a senior U.S. official recalled. “There was massive resentment among the Afghan people. And we were the most corrupt.”
Today 85% of Afghanistan’s people subsist on less than one dollar a day. Whether the Taliban government or the so-called international community will act to address their deprivation and build a lasting peace is an open question.
C. J. Polychroniou: What role can economics play in peace building?
James K. Boyce: There is much to be said on this topic—it is the focus of the video series—and space precludes a full answer here. Let me highlight just two points.
First, economic policies can either reduce inequalities and the accompanying tensions or exacerbate them. This means not only “vertical” inequality between rich and poor, but also “horizontal” inequalities between groups defined on another basis, such as region, ethnicity, race, or religion. A single-minded focus on the total size of the economic pie—the conventional goals of growth and efficiency—is misplaced when conflicts over how it is sliced threaten to smash the pie.
Second, economic policies can either strengthen or weaken the bargaining power of pro-peace forces vis-à-vis those who seek to perpetuate the conflict. In Bosnia, for example, a crucial postwar issue was the return of refugees and internally displaced persons to their former homes. In some municipalities, local leaders welcomed them; in others, they actively obstructed returns, in part to protect their ill-gotten loot. In its “Open Cities” program, the United Nations High Commission for Refugees used reconstruction aid to reward municipalities that welcomed returns and to induce leaders on the fence to come down on the pro-peace side. The program’s implementation was not perfect, but the idea was sound. Again, “who” matters as much as “what.”
C. J. Polychroniou: How can we apply economics to the wars in Ukraine and Gaza? Can economic policies help to drive peace in those two war-torn areas?
James K. Boyce: The Trump administration’s “America first” stance seems likely to lead to a U.S. pullback from engagement in the tasks of peace building and state building in war-torn societies. In part, this reflects a disillusionment born of the dismal failures in Afghanistan and Iraq, and as those experiences suggest, disengagement may not be entirely a bad thing. But Ukraine and Gaza continue to loom large on the U.S. foreign policy agenda.
Trump often is described as “transactional” with good reason: For him, policy is about making deals. In both Ukraine and Gaza, economic considerations will be a big part of any deals we see. But it is by no means clear that forging a lasting peace will be the top priority for the dealmakers. If not, the end of the current wars could merely set the stage for future ones.
The Ukraine war is exhibit No. 1 of the dangers of fossil-fueled oligarchy. In addition to enormous environmental costs, fossil fuels carry a high political cost: They enable the autocratic rulers of petrostates to govern with little accountability to either their own citizens or norms of international law. Vladimir Putin’s Russia is a case in point. As Ukraine illustrates, fossil fueled-oligarchy can metastasize into fossil-fueled war.
Putin has oil and gas; Netanyahu has the United States.
Oil and gas revenues have sustained the Putin regime, notwithstanding international sanctions. The sanctions do, however, drive a wedge between the world market price and what Russia receives, so the prospect of lifting them could act as an incentive for Russia to accept a negotiated settlement. But if the Trump administration eases the sanctions without a peace agreement, while at the same time cutting military and financial aid to Ukraine, this will tilt the terms of the settlement in Russia’s favor.
On the Ukrainian side, the prospect of large-scale reconstruction assistance—as well as an end to the carnage—may provide an incentive, too. It now appears that the responsibility for funding Ukraine’s postwar reconstruction will fall mainly on Europe; whether the European nations will be willing and able to shoulder this burden remains to be seen. In an effort to shore up U.S. support, Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky has offered a minerals-for-aid deal that would give the U.S. access to Ukraine’s deposits of lithium, uranium, and other critical minerals. But the minerals will be in the ground regardless of who controls the land above them, and it is not evident that the Trump administration will care much about that.
In Gaza, the latest war tragically illustrates what I call the “partition dilemma.” The 1994 Oslo Accord sought to resolve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict by establishing the Palestinian Authority as a step toward a two-state solution. In the short run, partition can be an appealing way to stop the shooting. But in the longer run, it can set the stage for renewed conflict, as demagogues on both sides invoke fear of the other to enlist public support from their own people. Partition severely undermines the viability of leaders and parties that would appeal to pro-peace constituencies on both sides.
It is not surprising that 30 years after Oslo, we find Hamas on one side and the Netanyahu government on the other. The two feed off each other in a de facto alliance, each holding up the other as justification for its own politics of demonization. This helps to explain why the Netanyahu government not only tolerated but actively facilitated the flow of cash from Qatar to Hamas. In a candid moment back in 2015, Bezalel Smotrich, who is now Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s finance minister, said that “Hamas is an asset.”
The chances that partition will lead to a lasting peace grow even slimmer if one side receives large-scale financial and military support with no strings attached—without peace conditionality—while the other does not. By emboldening one side and embittering the other, the resulting imbalance is a recipe for renewed conflict. Putin has oil and gas; Netanyahu has the United States. Rather than a negotiated settlement, the Israeli government now appears to be seeking a winner-take-all victory. Under the new U.S. administration, Netanyahu will face even fewer constraints than under the last one.
Trump’s talk of taking over Gaza and turning it into the “Riviera of the Middle East” is reminiscent of plunder during the colonial era, including the dispossession of Native Americans in the United States. Yet in purely economic terms it makes a certain amount of sense: Beach resort development would indeed be a more profitable use of the land than maintaining Gaza as a place of confinement for 2 million refugees. Where other politicians see territory, Trump sees real estate.
The problem, of course, is what to do with Palestinians. There is one place that many of them might go willingly: the land of their grandparents, Israel. The fact that option this is unmentionable, even unthinkable, tells us a lot.
If the war in Gaza and ongoing displacement in the West Bank do not end with the complete expulsion or annihilation of the Palestinians—a prospect that still seems inconceivable—the eventual outcome will be a single state in which the surviving Palestinians have a subordinate and marginalized status. Their struggle will then become one for equal rights. Economic policies could prove helpful at that point, but history suggests it will be a long, hard road.
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Trump’s South Africa Executive Order Reflects the Global History of White Supremacy
The right wing in the United States as well as Great Britain, Canada, and elsewhere, has held a fascination for apartheid and has regretted its abolition.
Feb 23, 2025
On February 7, U.S. President Donald Trump issued an executive order “to address serious human rights violations occurring in South Africa.” The order charged “blatant discrimination” against “ethnic minority descendants of settler groups,” and mandated “a plan to resettle disfavored minorities in South Africa discriminated against because of their race as refugees.” His actions echo a long history of right-wing support in the United States for racism in Southern Africa, including mobilization of support for white Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) as well as the apartheid regime in South Africa.
Analysts in South Africa quickly pointed out the many factual errors in Trump’s diatribe. Even Afrikaners, who he alleges are persecuted, are unlikely to accept being refugees since South Africa is their home country. The post-apartheid constitution of 1997, echoing the African National Congress’ Freedom Charter of 1955, clearly states that South Africa belongs to “all who live in it.” But Trump’s misunderstanding is an example of the transnational scope of white racist nostalgia.
An essential component of opposing the MAGA offensive against human rights in the United States has been new understandings of U.S. history, as reflected in the 1619 Project and a host of other publications. Most often, however, this discussion has focused on the United States in isolation. Scholars such as Ana Lucia Araújo, in Humans in Shackles, and Howard French, in Born of Blackness, have pioneered wider global histories. But however influential this trend is among historians, it has not been matched by attention in the media or public debate.
The sympathy that even liberal Robert F. Kennedy expressed for South African white pioneers on a hostile frontier evokes the common ideology of legitimizing settler conquest.
In the global history of white supremacy, the close relationship between the United States and South Africa stands out for centuries of interaction between the two settler colonies, with both ideological and material links from the 17th to the 20th centuries. Significant links between Black resistance movements in the two countries also date back at least to the early 20th century. But until the end of official apartheid in the 1990s, the closest bonds were between white America and white South Africa.
In a short history of the Boer War written by eight-year-old future CIA Director Allen Dulles in 1901, and published by his grandfather, Dulles noted that the Boers landed at the Cape in 1652, “finding no people but a few Indians,” and that “it was not right for the British to come in because the Boers had the first right to the land.” For Dulles, as for other U.S. policymakers until almost the end of the 20th century, it was axiomatic that only whites had rights.
The parallels between these two settler colonies were significant. Robert F. Kennedy, speaking to university students in Cape Town in June 1966, put it like this:
I come here this evening because of my deep interest and affection for a land settled by the Dutch in the mid-17th century, then taken over by the British, and at last independent; a land in which the native inhabitants were at first subdued, but relations with whom remain a problem to this day; a land which defined itself on a hostile frontier; a land which has tamed rich natural resources through the energetic application of modern technology; a land which once the importer of slaves, and now must struggle to wipe out the last traces of that former bondage. I refer, of course, to the United States of America.
The parallels were matched by a long history of interaction. The concept for the African reserves (later Bantustans) in South Africa was modeled on American Indian reservations. As noted by historian John W. Cell, Americans and South Africans debated how to shape “segregation” in urbanizing societies in the mid-20th century. The Carnegie Corporation of New York financed both the classic study of the situation of “poor whites° in South Africa and Gunnar Myrdal´s The American Dilemma: The Negro Problem and American Democracy.
In the early 20th century, mining engineer Herbert Hoover (later U.S. president) was the founder and director of the Chinese Engineering and Mining Corporation, which shipped some 50.000 Chinese laborers to South Africa to work in South African mines. The scheme was abandoned in 1911. Mention of it was recently deleted from Wikipedia, most likely in 2018.
Both countries were united during the Cold War through anti-communism. South African officials studied McCarthyist legislation in the United States and applied it at home through the Suppression of Communism Act. In both countries, “anti-communism” became a way to defy demands for civil rights. Although white racism in South Africa became the focus of international condemnation after the official adoption of apartheid in 1948, the United States and other Western countries systematically opposed sanctions against South Africa for decades until the rise of the international anti-apartheid movement resulted in the congressional override of President Ronald Reagan’s veto to pass the Comprehensive Anti-Apartheid Act of 1986.
That success came after decades of campaigning in the United States and around the world, with heightened international attention coming in response to resistance in South Africa itself. The Treason Trial from 1956 to 1961, in which Nelson Mandela and 135 other leaders of the African National Congress were charged, evoked widespread anti-apartheid actions in the United Kingdom and other countries. The Sharpeville Massacre in 1960 and the Soweto Youth Uprising in 1976 precipitated even larger waves of protest, fueled by new media options. Resistance reached a new peak after the formation of the United Democratic Front in 1983.
Following the release of Nelson Mandela in 1990, and the first non-racial election that brought him into office, there was worldwide celebration at the end of political apartheid. In later years, it became clear that only a minority of Black South Africans had joined the elite at the top of a still sharply unequal society. Disillusionment and discontent over high rates of unemployment and poverty arose among the majority of Black South Africans.
But that is a very different sentiment than the nostalgia for the old apartheid order among white South Africans who left the country as well as many who stayed in South Africa.
The right wing in the United States as well as Great Britain, Canada, and elsewhere, has held a fascination for apartheid and has regretted its abolition. The global anti-apartheid movement unleashed unprecedented demands by citizens to rein in corporate activity that supported apartheid. In the same way that climate activists studied divestment, so too have conservative lobbying groups studied how to block divestment groups. The sympathy that even liberal Robert F. Kennedy expressed for South African white pioneers on a hostile frontier evokes the common ideology of legitimizing settler conquest. Trump’s Executive Order can only be understood in that context.
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