Namibia is mourning, but mourning alone is not enough. The death of Justine Shiweda, a public prosecutor who died from injuries sustained in a brutal, targeted attack, should leave this nation shaken to its moral core. She did not die of illness. She did not die by accident. She died in the line of duty because she dared to do her job. And that should outrage every single one of us.
Justine Shiweda did not deserve to die. Not like this. Not violently. Not as a warning. Not as collateral damage in a society that too often shrugs when women are brutalised and silenced.
She was one of the judiciary’s own, a servant of the law, a woman entrusted by the state to uphold justice on behalf of all Namibians. That she was attacked so viciously, and that those injuries ultimately claimed her life, is not just a personal tragedy. It is a national failure.
When a prosecutor is gunned down for doing her work, the message is chilling: that justice itself is under siege. That intimidation has found its way into the heart of our legal system. That those tasked with defending the rule of law are no longer safe.
Justine’s death must therefore not be reduced to a headline, a fleeting moment of sympathy, or another statistic in our long and painful record of violence against women. Her killing demands outrage, sustained, principled outrage, and action.
She died because she stood where the law required her to stand. Because she prosecuted. Because she refused to flinch. Because she represented the state and, by extension, the people of Namibia. If this crime is not met with urgency, resolve and transparency, then we must confront an even darker truth: that we have become numb not only to gender-based violence but also to attacks on justice itself. And that cannot be allowed.
If ever there was a case that should jolt us awake, revive our humanity, and strip away our dangerous indifference, it is this one. Namibia has spoken endlessly about gender-based violence. We have marched, debated, legislated and lamented. Yet women continue to die, often violently, often publicly, often without consequence.
Justine Shiweda’s case brings the horror closer than most. This was not a nameless victim. This was not “someone else’s daughter.” She was a known professional, a colleague within the justice system, a woman whose work placed her squarely in the machinery of the state. If she could be targeted so brazenly, what does that say about the safety of ordinary women whose names never make the news?
Her death strips away excuses. It exposes how hollow our outrage becomes when it is not followed by accountability. Because Justine did not have to die. Not like this.
There is, at this moment, a solemn responsibility resting on the shoulders of the judiciary, the prosecuting authority, and the state as a whole. This case cannot be allowed to crawl through the system. It cannot be buried under procedural delays, lost dockets or institutional fatigue. Since Justine was one of their own, one would hope, indeed, expect, that the judiciary will dispose of this matter expeditiously, firmly and without fear or favour.
Justice delayed here would not merely be justice denied. It would be an insult to her memory.
This case must be prosecuted with urgency, not because of public pressure, but because the integrity of the justice system itself is at stake. When those who enforce the law are attacked, the response must be swift and uncompromising. Anything less invites impunity.
Justine’s family has lost a daughter, a mother, and a sister. Her colleagues have lost a comrade. The country has lost a public servant who believed in the work she was doing. But beyond grief, we owe her something more enduring: resolve.
Resolve that her death will not be normalised. Resolve that violence against women will no longer be met with ritual statements and fleeting outrage.
Resolve that attacks on judicial officers will be treated as attacks on the state itself.
Let her death force us to ask hard questions. About protection for prosecutors and magistrates. About how seriously we take threats against women. About how easily we have learnt to live with brutality.
If we allow ourselves to move on too quickly, if we allow this to become just another case file, then we would have failed her twice — once by not protecting her, and again by forgetting her.
Justine Shiweda did not have to die. Not like this. Her life mattered. Her work mattered. Her courage mattered. And now, her death must matter enough to change something in us.
May she rest in peace. And may her death awaken a nation that can no longer afford to sleep.
