(For Saturday's Namibian Sun) The cowards who abandoned the struggle
Ah, Heroes Day. The annual parade of medals, marching bands, and throat-clearing speeches so long they could put even the most caffeinated goat to sleep. It’s the day we remember those who sacrificed everything for Namibia’s freedom. But somewhere, quietly sipping tea in the shadows, are those who chose not to walk that path - the cowards who abandoned the liberation struggle.
Yes, while real fighters were dodging bullets in Cassinga, some future “comrades” were dodging only their mother’s broom, hiding behind sacks of mahangu and claiming they were “protecting the village supply line.” Others became masters of camouflage - not in the bush, but in bars in Lusaka and Lubango, where they fought bravely against bottles of Castle Lager, one after another.
And let’s not forget the ones who developed strategic expertise in the art of disappearing. They slipped across borders not for training, but for greener pastures. Heroes were in the trenches; they were in the trousers of European students, suddenly discovering that liberation was best observed from a Parisian café with croissant in hand.
Of course, independence eventually came - carried on the backs of those who never flinched. And wouldn’t you know it? The deserters returned, freshly moisturised and full of ideas about “nation building.” Some even perfected the art of standing just close enough to the podium on Heroes Day to be photographed, without ever risking the awkward question: “Comrade, where exactly were you during the war?”
Today, they sit in front rows, chests puffed out like pigeons, retelling tales of how they nearly joined the struggle. Almost crossed the border. Almost picked up a rifle. Almost became martyrs - but, alas, their destiny was “leadership.”
They are now the first to demand protocol cars and police escorts to Heroes Day events, thumping their chests so hard you’d think they personally wrestled apartheid into submission. Ask them where they were during Cassinga, and they’ll tell you they were “strategising.” Ask them about the camps, and suddenly they develop selective amnesia: “Comrade, I was in exile, in... Switzerland. Dangerous times, you see.”
Worse still, they’ve mastered the art of reciting the struggle as though it were their own diary. They sprinkle their speeches with “we” and “us,” when the closest they came to liberation combat was fighting for a better seat in the cafeteria at some European university.
The real heroes lie in cemeteries or live quietly on pensions that can’t even buy them a loaf of bread, while the deserters live in mansions with high walls, guarded by the very freedom they never lifted a finger for.
Perhaps next year we should host two events: Heroes Day for those who actually fought, and Cowards’ Gala Dinner for the ones who ran - black-tie, of course, since they’re already overdressed for history.
Yes, while real fighters were dodging bullets in Cassinga, some future “comrades” were dodging only their mother’s broom, hiding behind sacks of mahangu and claiming they were “protecting the village supply line.” Others became masters of camouflage - not in the bush, but in bars in Lusaka and Lubango, where they fought bravely against bottles of Castle Lager, one after another.
And let’s not forget the ones who developed strategic expertise in the art of disappearing. They slipped across borders not for training, but for greener pastures. Heroes were in the trenches; they were in the trousers of European students, suddenly discovering that liberation was best observed from a Parisian café with croissant in hand.
Of course, independence eventually came - carried on the backs of those who never flinched. And wouldn’t you know it? The deserters returned, freshly moisturised and full of ideas about “nation building.” Some even perfected the art of standing just close enough to the podium on Heroes Day to be photographed, without ever risking the awkward question: “Comrade, where exactly were you during the war?”
Today, they sit in front rows, chests puffed out like pigeons, retelling tales of how they nearly joined the struggle. Almost crossed the border. Almost picked up a rifle. Almost became martyrs - but, alas, their destiny was “leadership.”
They are now the first to demand protocol cars and police escorts to Heroes Day events, thumping their chests so hard you’d think they personally wrestled apartheid into submission. Ask them where they were during Cassinga, and they’ll tell you they were “strategising.” Ask them about the camps, and suddenly they develop selective amnesia: “Comrade, I was in exile, in... Switzerland. Dangerous times, you see.”
Worse still, they’ve mastered the art of reciting the struggle as though it were their own diary. They sprinkle their speeches with “we” and “us,” when the closest they came to liberation combat was fighting for a better seat in the cafeteria at some European university.
The real heroes lie in cemeteries or live quietly on pensions that can’t even buy them a loaf of bread, while the deserters live in mansions with high walls, guarded by the very freedom they never lifted a finger for.
Perhaps next year we should host two events: Heroes Day for those who actually fought, and Cowards’ Gala Dinner for the ones who ran - black-tie, of course, since they’re already overdressed for history.
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