Bearing the Weight of the Past

Growing up, I often thought of history as something far away. Think dusty books, old tales, photographs of people I would not know.

Yet, the stories we inherit, even without living them, shape us. I was reminded of this recently when discussing the Lubango dungeons in Angola, where Namibian exiles were detained, tortured and controlled during the fight against apartheid.

The dungeons were part of a broader liberation effort, a violent strategy meant to protect my people, to free us, to one day offer me the chance at a life I now inhabit. And yet, remembering those accounts, I cannot help but feel the weight of questions: whose freedom was being fought for, and at what cost to others?

The Lubango dungeons are often framed as a necessary evil. Namibia’s independence struggle was real, brutal and deeply rooted in the injustice of colonialism and apartheid.

The exiles endured unspeakable suffering, all supposedly in the name of liberation and the hope of granting a future to a generation that would one day know freedom.

And I exist in that future, I am free in ways my grandparents, my parents, my elders could not be. Yet that freedom comes entangled with a past that is not wholly heroic or unblemished.

Stories of aggression persist among Namibians, such as Oshiwambo exiles who inflicted pain on others. Marginalised groups within the liberation movement became victims of their own people’s struggles for power and survival.

There is an uncomfortable truth in acknowledging that even in the pursuit of justice, injustice can be perpetuated.

As an Oshiwambo Namibian, these stories force me to confront a part of myself I hadn’t thought about before.

I grew up privileged: a private school, a sheltered childhood, doors opened for me simply because of who I was and where I came from.

In many ways, the “free life” my grandparents and their generation fought for was extended to me not just through liberation from apartheid, but also through the structural and social advantages I inherited.
I
am grateful for these privileges, yet I cannot ignore the responsibility that comes with them.

I have the luxury of education, movement and expression. But these luxuries exist alongside structural inequalities that I benefit from, knowingly or not. Classism in Namibia, like everywhere else, is subtle and persistent, and I am not exempt. Recognising this is uncomfortable, but essential.

This reckoning extends beyond class. I exist in a world structured for heteronormativity. I navigate society in ways that are facilitated by being straight, a comfort invisible to most but deeply felt by those who cannot take it for granted.

Yet, these privileges intersect with the undeniable realities of race and gender. I am a Black woman in a racist, sexist world, and that reality has never been mitigated by the relative comforts of class or education.

The weight of history and systemic oppression that I continue to face is real.

Acknowledging my advantages does not erase my pain, but it forces me to live consciously and to reflect. It forces me to examine how I might perpetuate harm if I remain passive.

Passivity is what I don’t want.

Reading about the Lubango dungeons became a mirror in which I saw not just the trauma of the past, but also the ways it travels across generations.

Trauma, like privilege, can travel silently downwards. It can manifest in the ways we uphold inequality, the ways we unconsciously enforce hierarchies and the ways we reproduce patterns of harm even when our intent is pure.

Confronting these truths is painful, but it is necessary if we hope to act differently in the present.

This is not an indictment of my people or my heritage. It is, instead, an acknowledgement that history is complex, and that freedom is never pure. The struggle for justice requires both celebration and critique, recognition and accountability.

I must reckon with the actions of those who came before me, both their bravery and their aggression, and consider how those actions ripple through the world I now inhabit.

To take responsibility is not to bear guilt for what I did not do. It is to confront the systems I inherit, the prejudices I might absorb and the privileges I take for granted.

It is to recognise that the fight for justice is ongoing, that liberation is never complete, and that our choices today matter as much as the struggles of yesterday.

I can honour those who fought for my freedom while refusing to excuse the harm that was done in that pursuit. I can acknowledge my Oshiwambo heritage while confronting the quiet, simmering supremacy that persists.

I can embrace my privileges while working to dismantle the structures that make them possible.

Now it’s just a matter of figuring out how, right?

History, trauma and liberation are intertwined whether we like it or not, and confronting them is a deeply personal act. The past shapes us, privilege demands reflection, and justice requires honesty.

Reconciliation is not a single act but a continual practice, an invitation to live in awareness, to act with humility, and to reckon with the legacies we inherit.

– Anne Hambuda is a social commentator, poet and novelist. Follow her online or email her at annehambuda@gmail.com for more.

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