Gaudeamus Igitur: A letter to Namibia’s higher learning institutions

April and May are graduation seasons across Namibian universities. The familiar rhythms of academic ceremony echoes through halls and auditoriums. Gowns are worn, degrees are conferred, and families celebrate. And almost without exception, the same song accompanies the academic procession: Gaudeamus Igitur.

Its melody, inherited from medieval Europe, has become so normalised that few pause to question it. Yet for those of us working within a decolonial framework, its repetition raises an uncomfortable question: why does a European student song continue to define the soundscape of African and Namibian academic achievement?

Gaudeamus Igitur—“therefore let us rejoice”—emerged from the context of European university life centuries ago. It carries with it a particular intellectual history, one rooted in Latin as the language of scholarship, in institutions that were never designed with African realities in mind.

There is nothing inherently wrong with the song itself. The problem lies in its elevation to a universal academic symbol, as though the traditions of medieval Europe are the natural expression of scholarly dignity everywhere in the world.

At institutions like the University of Namibia, this inheritance is not limited to music. It extends into the very language of academic ritual. Consider the continued use of the term viva voce—Latin for “with the living voice”—to describe the oral defence of theses and dissertations at our country's premier university. Again, this is treated as neutral, as “how academia works.” But it is not neutral. It reflects whose knowledge systems have historically been centred, and whose have been marginalised.

What we are witnessing is not merely tradition; it is the continuity of colonial epistemology, right here at the University of Namibia. The persistence of Latin phrases, European ceremonial music, theoretical frameworks, and imported academic symbols reveals how deeply colonised our institutions remain, not only in the curriculum but also in culture, aesthetics, and everyday practice.

Decolonisation, as it is often discussed, tends to focus on what is taught: whose authors are on the course outlines, which histories are foregrounded, which theories are legitimised. These are crucial questions. But they are incomplete if we ignore the symbolic and performative dimensions of academic life.

The graduation procession is not a trivial detail. It is a powerful ritual moment that communicates what the university values, what it recognises as legitimate, and how it situates itself in the world.

When Namibian graduates walk to Gaudeamus Igitur, what message is being conveyed—implicitly if not explicitly? That academic excellence sounds European. That intellectual tradition is something imported. The pinnacle of scholarly recognition is best marked by symbols that originate elsewhere. Even if unintended, these messages accumulate over time, shaping how institutions imagine themselves and how students experience their place within them.

Broader pattern

The same can be said of viva voce. Why must the culmination of years of research be named in a language that is not spoken by the community it serves? Why should the validation of African/Namibian scholarship be mediated through Latin terminology? These choices may appear minor, but they are part of a broader pattern in which colonial legacies are reproduced through habit, rather than deliberate endorsement.

To say that “we are deeply colonised as a Namibian universities/colleges” is not to dismiss the achievements of our institutions or the dedication of those who work within them. It is to acknowledge that coloniality persists in subtle and normalised ways. It is to recognise that transformation requires more than policy statements—it requires attention to the textures of institutional life.

What might it look like to take this seriously? It does not necessarily mean discarding everything inherited from elsewhere. Decolonisation is not about erasure; it is about agency, balance, integration, and relevance. But it also does mean asking difficult questions. Why not commission or adopt a Namibian/African composition for academic processions—one that reflects local and continental musical traditions and contemporary identities? Why not rename academic rituals in languages that resonate with the students who participate? Why not treat the ceremony itself as a site of intellectual and cultural production, rather than a fixed script to be followed?

There are precedents for this kind of reimagining. Across the continent and beyond, institutions are experimenting with ways to align their symbolic practices with their contexts. These efforts are not about rejecting global academic standards, but about refusing the assumption that those standards must always be expressed through European forms.

Ultimately, the issue is not the song "Gaudeamus Igitur" or the phrase "viva voce" in isolation. It is the uncritical reproduction of a particular academic heritage as though it were universal. It is the absence of intentionality in how we construct the rituals that define our institutions.

April and May’s graduations once again remind us of the power of these moments. They are not only celebrations of individual achievement; they are performances of institutional identity. If we are serious about decolonisation, then we must be willing to examine not just what we teach, but what we perform—and why.

The question, then, is not whether tradition matters. It is whose traditions we choose to elevate, and whether we dare to imagine alternatives.

*Ndumba Kamwanyah is a public policy expert (PhD) focusing on the interplay of social welfare policy, development and democracy. He is also a peace and reconciliation scholar and a certified mediator with a master's in conflict studies.