Not long ago, a friend and I found ourselves locked in a heated debate about our traditional villages, what many of us still affectionately call “back home”.
What began as a casual conversation quickly turned into a fundamental disagreement about the future of these places. His position was blunt: our villages are dying and not worth investing in. Mine was equally firm: if villages are dying, then it is precisely our generation, the one with education, mobility, and relative means, that must step in to ensure they do not disappear. That debate forced me to confront a broader national question: have we given up on our villages too easily, or have we simply failed to imagine their future?
My friend’s argument was grounded in realities that cannot be ignored. Young people are leaving villages in large numbers, choosing city life, even informal settlements, over rural areas with unreliable water, electricity, and limited economic prospects. Climate change has made subsistence farming increasingly uncertain, and much of the land is overgrazed and vulnerable to drought. In many villages today, those who remain are not there by choice but by arrangement: caretakers and security guards paid by families who now live in towns. To him, investing in a village under these conditions is irrational, especially when there is no title deed to prove ownership. In his view, traditional villages as we know them are dead, and romanticising them only delays an inevitable transition to modern urban living.
And yet, I could not accept that conclusion. What troubled me most was not the acknowledgement of these challenges but the resignation embedded in his argument. Across Namibia, many people who live and work in towns still describe themselves as “migrant workers”, even after decades in urban areas. They build modest houses in town, if at all, while investing heavily “back home”. Nowhere is this more visible than in the northern regions, where large, well-built houses stand in villages that are supposedly no longer relevant. These investments tell a different story, one of enduring attachment, identity, and a sense that the village remains the final home, even if daily life happens elsewhere. A dying place does not command such loyalty.
This tension between physical absence and emotional presence is not unique to Namibia. Other countries have faced similar patterns of rural decline, only to later recognise the cost of neglecting their villages. China’s rapid urbanisation hollowed out large parts of its countryside, prompting the government to introduce a national Rural Revitalisation Strategy. The aim was not to force people back to villages but to make villages worth returning to by modernising agriculture, improving infrastructure, and supporting rural entrepreneurship. While our context differs, the lesson is universal: villages do not die because people leave; they die because investment, imagination, and policy leave first.
One of the strongest objections raised in my debate was the absence of title deeds. It is true that unclear land rights discourage investment. But to assume that development is impossible without individual freehold ownership is to ignore alternative models that work. Botswana’s tribal land system and Rwanda’s land tenure reforms show that secure, well-administered customary land rights can support meaningful investment without dismantling communal systems. What matters is not a piece of paper labelled “title deed”, but certainty, fairness, and trust in land administration. Strengthening customary tenure in Namibia could unlock rural investment while preserving traditional authority and social cohesion.
Climate change and declining agricultural productivity are often cited as the final nails in the coffin of village life. Yet paradoxically, villages sit on one of the most valuable assets of the future: land. In an era of food insecurity and environmental stress, land managed wisely becomes a strategic resource. Countries such as Israel and India have demonstrated that arid regions can be productive through drip irrigation, renewable energy, and climate-smart farming. With modern techniques, traditional villages could shift from vulnerable subsistence systems to diversified, resilient rural economies. This is not about turning villages into cities but about giving them the tools to survive and adapt.
Beyond economics, there is something deeper at stake. Traditional villages are where language is preserved, customs are practised, and intergenerational bonds are formed. When villages decline, we lose more than buildings and fields; we lose social systems that have sustained communities for generations. Japan’s efforts to revive ageing rural villages through cultural tourism and incentives for young families reflect an understanding that rural spaces are central to national identity, not obstacles to progress.
The debate with my friend ended without agreement, but it left me convinced of one thing: declaring villages “dead” is easier than doing the hard work of reimagining them. If we accept their demise, we accept a future of overcrowded cities, deeper inequality, and cultural erosion. A deliberate “village revival” approach, supported by government policy and driven by the younger generation, could transform villages into hubs of innovation, agriculture, and cultural continuity.
The village has not died. What is at risk is our willingness to invest in it. And if we, the generation with means and choice, walk away, then history will rightly ask whether the village failed us or whether we failed the village.
