Oshifo’s open-door policy
Oshifo police station has quietly become Namibia’s most efficient in allowing suspects to escape. Entry is swift. Exit is even swifter. Over the past two months, 31 inmates have demonstrated that the holding cells are not so much a place of detention as a polite suggestion.
This is not a jailbreak problem. Jailbreaks involve planning, teamwork, tunnels, coded notes and perhaps a spoon stolen from the mess hall. Oshifo seems to operate on a simpler principle: if you feel like leaving, you may.
Inmates do not escape so much as depart. No alarms. No drama. Just the quiet confidence of people who know the door will not argue.
One imagines the holding cells starting each day with a sense of shame. Bars still there. Locks still attached. Prisoners gone. Again. The cells are doing their best. The inmates are simply doing better.
Thirty-one escapes in two months is no longer a statistic. It is a pattern. A rhythm. At this pace, Oshifo could introduce a timetable. Perhaps even a departures board. One escape every other day suggests consistency. Reliability. A system that works — just not for the people who built it.
There is also a detail that tends to be mentioned softly, if at all: many of those who walk out of Oshifo’s holding cells are Angolan nationals. This gives the cells an unfortunate resemblance to the northern border. Both exist. Both are visible. Both are frequently bypassed. Neither is dramatic about it. People simply continue on their journeys.
Police statements remain reassuring. Investigations are under way. This is good to hear, though it raises a small concern about whether the investigations are still inside the building.
Residents, meanwhile, have adapted. Oshifo now operates on a new kind of forecast. Sunny. Hot. With a chance of escaped inmates. Children are reminded to lock doors. Adults are reminded not to be surprised anymore.
The situation reveals something important about public systems. They do not collapse all at once. They loosen. Slowly. Politely. Until everyone adjusts their expectations downward and calls it normal.
Saturday, however, refuses to call it normal.
Escaped inmates are serious business. They frighten communities and erode trust in law enforcement. But repetition has a way of dulling outrage. When something fails often enough, people stop asking how it happened and start asking how long it will take next time.
Someone will eventually replace a lock. Or reinforce a door. Or assign a guard whose eyelids are less ambitious. Until then, Oshifo remains Namibia’s most reliable exit point.
One hopes the next escape does not happen before this column goes to print.
Then again, hope has already slipped out quietly.
This is not a jailbreak problem. Jailbreaks involve planning, teamwork, tunnels, coded notes and perhaps a spoon stolen from the mess hall. Oshifo seems to operate on a simpler principle: if you feel like leaving, you may.
Inmates do not escape so much as depart. No alarms. No drama. Just the quiet confidence of people who know the door will not argue.
One imagines the holding cells starting each day with a sense of shame. Bars still there. Locks still attached. Prisoners gone. Again. The cells are doing their best. The inmates are simply doing better.
Thirty-one escapes in two months is no longer a statistic. It is a pattern. A rhythm. At this pace, Oshifo could introduce a timetable. Perhaps even a departures board. One escape every other day suggests consistency. Reliability. A system that works — just not for the people who built it.
There is also a detail that tends to be mentioned softly, if at all: many of those who walk out of Oshifo’s holding cells are Angolan nationals. This gives the cells an unfortunate resemblance to the northern border. Both exist. Both are visible. Both are frequently bypassed. Neither is dramatic about it. People simply continue on their journeys.
Police statements remain reassuring. Investigations are under way. This is good to hear, though it raises a small concern about whether the investigations are still inside the building.
Residents, meanwhile, have adapted. Oshifo now operates on a new kind of forecast. Sunny. Hot. With a chance of escaped inmates. Children are reminded to lock doors. Adults are reminded not to be surprised anymore.
The situation reveals something important about public systems. They do not collapse all at once. They loosen. Slowly. Politely. Until everyone adjusts their expectations downward and calls it normal.
Saturday, however, refuses to call it normal.
Escaped inmates are serious business. They frighten communities and erode trust in law enforcement. But repetition has a way of dulling outrage. When something fails often enough, people stop asking how it happened and start asking how long it will take next time.
Someone will eventually replace a lock. Or reinforce a door. Or assign a guard whose eyelids are less ambitious. Until then, Oshifo remains Namibia’s most reliable exit point.
One hopes the next escape does not happen before this column goes to print.
Then again, hope has already slipped out quietly.
Comments
Namibian Sun
No comments have been left on this article