Silence is where discrimination takes root

“First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out –

because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out –

because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out –

because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me – and there was no one left to speak for me.”

The warning by German pastor Martin Niemöller, written after the horrors of Nazi persecution, was never meant only for Europe. Its message has travelled across continents and generations: discrimination rarely begins with just one person.

It starts with someone. A minority. A political opponent. A tribe. A race. Silence then becomes the accomplice that allows injustice to grow.

Events in Namibia’s National Assembly this week brought that warning back into focus. Racially charged remarks directed at deputy education minister Dino Ballotti are an uncomfortable reflection of the language that still circulates in public life.

Parliamentary debate is meant to be robust, even heated, yet when arguments descend into racial attacks, the tone shifts from political disagreement to something far more dangerous.

Namibia’s Constitution stands as one of the most progressive in Africa, built deliberately to bury the ugly legacies of colonial rule and apartheid.

The country emerged from a brutal system of racial segregation that classified human beings by colour and assigned them worth accordingly.

Towns were divided. Schools were segregated. Economic opportunity followed the colour bar.

Independence in 1990 promised a clean break with the past. Political leaders spoke of reconciliation rather than revenge.

Namibia chose the difficult path of building a shared nation out of a deeply divided history. Many still point to that moment as one of the country’s greatest achievements.

But political competition can easily cross over into tribal language, where criticism of an individual becomes condemnation of an entire group.

Campaign rhetoric sometimes drifts towards ethnic loyalties rather than national priorities. Social media has amplified the problem, giving anonymity to voices that recycle stereotypes about tribes, races or regions.

The language of exclusion spreads faster than the language of unity.

Racial insults in parliament, therefore, carry a weight far beyond the chamber’s walls.

Parliament represents the country’s highest democratic forum. Citizens expect arguments about policy, budgets and governance, not attacks rooted in identity. When leaders resort to racial or tribal rhetoric, they signal that such language is acceptable elsewhere.

A respected constitution

History shows how quickly such attitudes can grow if left unchecked.

Apartheid itself began with laws and language that classified people as different. Colonial regimes across Africa relied on similar tactics, dividing communities and reinforcing hierarchies that placed some lives above others.

Political stability, a respected Constitution and relatively peaceful elections have long distinguished Namibia in a region where ethnic and racial tensions have sometimes erupted into violence.

That reputation, however, depends on vigilance.

Discrimination does not always arrive through dramatic acts. Often, it begins with casual remarks, jokes or insults that target someone’s background.

Words normalise attitudes. Attitudes eventually shape policies.

The attack on deputy minister of education, innovation, youth, sport, arts and culture Dino Ballotti, therefore, resonates beyond the individual involved. The real question is not whether one politician was insulted. The deeper issue is whether society recognises the danger of allowing identity to become a weapon in public discourse.

Niemöller’s warning resonates precisely because discrimination tends to escalate in stages.

One group becomes the acceptable target today. Another follows tomorrow. Silence from the majority then creates a culture where prejudice thrives.

Commitment

Namibia’s founding generation understood this risk. Reconciliation after independence required acknowledging the country’s wounds without allowing those wounds to define the future. The promise of a united nation demanded more than new laws. It required a shared commitment to dignity.

That commitment, however, still faces tests. Economic hardship, political competition and social frustration can easily push societies toward blame.

And leaders have a particular responsibility to resist that temptation. Words spoken in parliament carry influence far beyond the chamber. Citizens hear them. Young people absorb them. The tone of national conversation often follows the tone set by those in power.

The lesson from history remains clear. Racism, tribalism, discrimination and segregation rarely disappear on their own. They fade only when societies challenge them openly, refuse to normalise them, and defend the principle that dignity does not depend on race, tribe or political affiliation.

Niemöller’s words endure because they remind us what happens when people choose silence. The warning applies as much to modern democracies as it did to the dark chapters of the twentieth century.

Silence, history shows, is where discrimination begins to grow. Speaking out is where it begins to end. Educate the ignorant.