Beyond blame: Embracing the politics of solutions

Over the past year, I have reflected deeply on what I can do differently in my second term as a Member of Parliament. I have also considered the shared responsibility of my colleagues across the aisle in our National Assembly. 

It is reasonable to assume that everyone who enters public service does so with genuine intentions for our country.

At its heart, the conviction that ordinary Namibians should thrive under laws and policies made in their interest must be what drives us all.

While personal or economic circumstances may influence the decision to run, the core desire remains unchanged: to build a better Namibia for everyone. I have also reviewed the promises made since the 2019 elections and the reports adopted by the National Assembly from 2020 onward.

As I write, I resist the temptation to list them all. We have adopted reports on youth unemployment, formalising the informal sector, wildlife protection, the state of our economy, conditions in holding cells, dilapidated school infrastructure, and the list goes on. 

Before adoption, debates were often robust, not to reject findings but to strengthen recommendations and support those tasked with implementation.

Yet every January, as parents struggle through a tough economy during “Back to School” season, Parliament is flooded with the same urgent questions: access to higher education, unaffordable learning materials, endless demands for stationery, books, toilet paper, and even air fresheners.

These are not new problems. We, as legislators and implementers, repeatedly fail to prepare for or learn from patterns adequately. Instead, we fall into what I call the “Politics of Diagnosis”: we have become experts at naming problems but seem to forget that our mandate is to deliver solutions.

This pattern extends beyond education to youth unemployment, a cause I have championed, where spotlighting the crisis too often substitutes for progress.

The Politics of Diagnosis and the Politics of Blame are close relatives, seductive distractions that close our eyes to our own role in solving these challenges.

It is painful to admit, but last year I saw colleagues succumb to this trap during a debate on my motion about how our economy and financial architecture, by design, sustain inequality, restrict access to finance, and deepen poverty. True to form, I paired the diagnosis with detailed reform proposals.

I expected the discussion to build from there. Instead, it veered into personal venting, vague assertions, and anecdotes, rarely grounded in research or constituent input.

The debate became a therapy session rather than a path to action. I do not write this to disparage individuals or label colleagues as self-serving. Instead, I do so to offer simple counsel: this is not about us. It is about the thousands who queued on election day, placing faith in our promises. 

Our task is not to dwell on blame once a problem is identified. It is to build stronger mechanisms of accountability. A respected scholar, Professor Johan Coetzee, often reminds us that Parliament is not merely a house of debate; it is a House of Governance.

I may disagree with aspects of how it currently functions and hold ideas for improvement, but my duty is not to fixate on institutional flaws. It is to propose solutions and press for change without lingering in complaint.

The hardest transition I have faced is from being an ordinary citizen to a public servant. As a citizen, I freely expressed my frustrations, often labelled ‘complaints’, without any duty to act. That mindset is where the Politics of Diagnosis begins: on a taxi ride to campus, hearing a minister question about education and muttering in anger, “Aiye, these people are all corrupt!”

At that moment, responsibility belongs to “them,” not me. Society reinforces this separation: we treat governance as the politician’s exclusive burden. It is far easier to diagnose than to wrestle with the complexities of solutions.

We must feel these issues and a sense of obligation deeply long before accepting nomination for public office. Our struggles as a Namibian people can never remain a “they” problem. They are our problems, and we must fix them. Life as an ordinary citizen carries few expectations: pay taxes, hold a job, care for loved ones. Life in public office is different.

Even when facing the same hardships, you carry an obligation to represent others without centring yourself. You must serve ethically, impartially, and relentlessly. Let us therefore move decisively beyond the comfort of diagnosis and the temptation of blame.

Let us embrace the politics of solutions with disciplined purpose, rigorous accountability, and genuine collaboration across party lines. The true test of our service will not be the sharpness of our critiques or the volume of our speeches. It will be the depth of change we deliver for our people.

This space demands more than good intentions. It requires sustained, courageous action. Namibians will soon queue again at polling stations. Will we greet them with fresh momentum and measurable progress, or with the same familiar grievances dressed in new words? The choice is ours.

*Inna Hengari is a Member of Parliament, a Political Science Graduate and a Student of Public Governance. She writes in her free time.