Courtesy Over Courage. Gaza Pays the Price

Every American who did—or didn’t—watch Donald Trump’s ambush of South African President Cyril Ramaphosa at the White House last week should be embarrassed. Trump outdid his usual uncivil and ignorant self.

For non-Americans, it was cringe-worthy. Not because of any intellectual mismatch, but because of what Ramaphosa allowed Trump to get away with. Politeness, and a desire not to offend while being a guest in someone else’s home, was Ramaphosa’s apparent approach.

Trump, meanwhile, behaved like a neanderthal—a caveman meandering and masquerading as a world leader. Ramaphosa’s parents clearly raised him well. But there comes a time when being a guest doesn’t mean remaining silent while being disrespected. Respect is a two-way street.

Trump’s inglorious performance is a warning to world leaders: politeness in the face of distortion enables dangerous narratives. Appeasement—no matter how diplomatic—allows propaganda to go unchallenged.

The meeting, framed by the Trump administration as a chance to “strengthen bilateral ties,” became a moment of international discomfort for anyone who remembers Trump’s reckless comments about South Africa during his first term.

In 2018, Trump tweeted a baseless accusation, citing a Fox News segment, claiming the South African government was seizing land from white farmers and that there was “large-scale killing” of white farmers—an unfounded claim steeped in white supremacist paranoia. At the time, the South African government swiftly rebuked him, calling him “misinformed.” But now, face to face with the architect of that lie, Ramaphosa said nothing.

That silence was more than diplomatic restraint—it was complicity by omission.

Trump’s portrayal of South Africa as a place of reverse racism and violent land grabs isn’t just a lie; it’s part of a wider political strategy: vilify Black and brown populations, distort foreign crises, and portray justice movements as threats to the established (white) order.

The truth is more complex. South Africa’s post-apartheid land reform program—while slow and often flawed—has never included the wholesale seizure of white-owned farms. The murder rate among white farmers is lower than that of the general population. Yet Trump’s narrative has taken hold among far-right groups in the U.S. and globally, fuelling the “white genocide” conspiracy theory.

Ramaphosa, who has cultivated a reputation as a pragmatic statesman, had a unique chance to correct this falsehood in Trump’s presence. More importantly, he had the opportunity to call out Trump’s hypocrisy—particularly in light of the U.S. role in the ongoing genocide in Gaza.

While Trump falsely accused South Africa of targeting white farmers, his own administration—and now his ongoing political influence—has emboldened Israeli aggression in Gaza under the banner of “self-defence.” His first term saw the U.S. embassy moved to Jerusalem, UNRWA funding cut, and a green light given to Israeli settlements in the West Bank. Today, his allies continue to deny or dismiss the mass civilian deaths in Gaza, where entire neighbourhoods have been levelled, hospitals bombed, and more than 200,000 Palestinians killed.

This is more than a double standard—it’s a grotesque example of how imperial narratives operate. Victims are vilified, aggressors are absolved, and any criticism is dismissed as antisemitic, anti-American, or extremist. Ramaphosa, who has rightly led South Africa’s case against Israel at the International Court of Justice, should have used this meeting to expose that hypocrisy. Trump’s attacks on South Africa weren’t just ignorant—they were projection.

Trump’s inability to recall history—whether about apartheid, American slavery, or colonialism—isn’t accidental. It’s political. His worldview depends on erasing context, simplifying conflicts into black-and-white binaries, and always casting the Western world as the besieged victim. Leaders who engage with Trump without challenging these distortions help launder them.

As someone who came of age in the anti-apartheid movement, and who governs a country still navigating the trauma of racial injustice, Ramaphosa had every reason to push back—not with hostility, but with historical clarity. He could’ve reminded Trump of America’s complicity in apartheid through Cold War alliances and trade. He could’ve clarified that land reform is justice delayed—not revenge. He could’ve connected Trump’s 2018 falsehoods with the lies now being weaponised against Palestinians.

Instead, Ramaphosa chose the safest path: diplomacy over truth, optics over courage. And while diplomacy often requires restraint, this was a moment that called for moral leadership.

The lesson isn’t just for Ramaphosa. It’s for every world leader preparing to visit Trump’s White House again. When standing opposite a man who distorts reality to serve power, silence is not neutral—it is an endorsement.

Ramaphosa’s failure to confront Trump wasn’t cowardice, but a cautionary tale. Because when leaders remain polite in the face of lies and injustice—whether in defence of their own people or in solidarity with others—they risk becoming part of the machinery that sustains oppression.

History won’t just remember the lies that were told. It will remember who stood up to them—and who didn’t.