White Pieter Jozia

Who Was My Father? My father was a dairy and grain farmer whose life revolved around his family, his faith in hard work, and the land he loved. He was a devoted husband to my mother and a proud father to three little girls, aged just 3, 6, and 8. He worked tirelessly to provide for us, building a life on our family farm where we felt safe, loved, and surrounded by the beauty of the countryside. To those who knew him, he was more than a farmer. He was a man of integrity, kindness, and quiet strength. He was someone who put his family first and dreamed of watching his daughters grow up. On a Sunday evening in 1994, our lives changed forever. As our family sat together eating dinner, two men forced their way into our home. What followed was a terrifying ordeal that lasted for nearly two hours but felt like a lifetime. My father was tied up while we were held captive, helpless to stop what was unfolding before us. Before the attackers left, they brutally assaulted him. He was shot in the side, stabbed beneath his eye socket, and beaten. Despite his terrible injuries, my mother made the desperate decision to run approximately two kilometres to a neighbouring farm to find help, hoping to save his life. My father died that night in our arms from blood loss. His murder stole a husband from his wife, a father from three young daughters, and a son, family member, friend, and respected farmer from everyone who knew him. Although more than three decades have passed, the loss has never left us. The violence of that night changed the course of our lives forever. Today, I choose to remember not only the tragedy of how my father died, but the life he lived. He was a good man who worked honestly, loved deeply, and deserved the chance to grow old with his family. His story is not only one of unimaginable loss—it is also one of love, resilience, and a family that has carried his memory forward every single day since.