A Protest

From the cheap seats, it looks like the statue of Curt von Francois is glowering.

A shadow darkens his eyes. He’s had that bronze hand on his hip since 1965, and as activist Keith Vries lowers his black scarf to stir the masked and socially distanced crowd, Von Francois’s gesture seems to stink of disapproval as scores of young Windhoekers chant “Black Lives Matter”.

As the once commissioner of the German imperial colonial army, I can’t imagine Von Francois would be impressed. We’ve come out to protest racism, police brutality and gender-based violence while Hildegard Titus’ petition for the statue’s removal essentially calls for Curt to get the hell off the lawn, so it’s easy to envision him scowling.

In life, black Namibian lives didn’t seem to matter to the man who oversaw their mass murder, but they do to the people who risk Covid-19 and the cold to join the multi-site protest.

So they come with anger.

They come with purpose, and they come with posters.

About halfway through the protest, a woman places her estimation of the statue at Von Francois’s feet. “A daily reminder of white supremacy and an insult to those whose blood waters our freedom.” To condemn him, the woman has scrambled up the plinth, peered up at Von Francois’ likeness in disgust and paused solemnly for a moment over the word sea.

The rippling ocean of trauma talks even as we silently honour the minutes a white American cop knelt on the late George Floyd’s neck as he pleaded for his life, eventually gasping the words that would galvanise the globe.

“I can’t breathe.”

Black America’s struggles aren’t precisely our own, but there is energy in their fight.

Though oceans, history and the here and now separate our plight, America’s protests shine a light on what Namibians have tolerated and ignored while inspiring us to gather as we have before – in numbers, keeping largely silent and using posters to ask:

“Where is Shannon?”

“Who killed Frieda?”

“Am I Next?”

The gathered are quiet, but the words on their posters scream of fear, apathy, the murdered and the missing, but that isn’t all.

A lady in a yellow sweater and bright red mask is “fed up of being afraid”.

A man in red glasses and a black hoodie reminds us that “trans lives matter” and a woman wearing a white jersey, fist held high, demands justice for Hlalisanani Zhou, Benisius Kalola, Frieda Ndatipo, Odilo Motanane, Johnny Doëseb, David Tuhafeni and Fambauone ‘Talent’ Black, each one murdered during confrontations with law enforcers or the police.

Words have power and we find that strength in the silence.

Drivers in cars hoot as they pass by.

Media cameras bear witness and the world gets to see what, given the chance, the youth will write first in square and then in our lives.

“My clothes do not determine my consent.”

“Legalise abortion”

“End white silence”

“Matter is the minimum”

The words hang in the silence like a spell, and in that instant, I know the world is changing and the people present will lead the way.

People like the woman who shyly agrees to a photograph while grabbing feigned ignorance by the neck in a simple white sheet.

Activists like post-futurist writer Masiyaleti Mbewe quotes the American poet Gwendolyn Brooks and reminds us of our humanity.

“We are each other’s harvest; we are each other’s business; we are each other’s magnitude and bond.”

In our fight against racism, police brutality, xenophobia, gender-based violence, rape culture, sexual violence and harassment, this is at the heart of what we must remember.

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