President Nandi-Ndaitwah’s decision to put a moratorium on state funerals is a move that deserves both praise and serious public debate. For years, Namibia has stumbled along without a transparent, universally accepted set of rules for who qualifies for a state, official, or heroes funeral. The result? Confusion, bitterness, and public quarrels at moments when the nation should be united in grief.
The recent passing of Dr. Moses Amweelo reignited these tensions. Many felt the former minister and respected political figure deserved, at the very least, an official funeral. Others supported the government’s decision to hold the line after the moratorium was declared. Now, the death of General Salomon Hawala (Rtd) presents a fresh test. For many, it seems obvious he will be accorded a heroes funeral and laid to rest at Heroes’ Acre. But there’s a catch; that moratorium. And here’s where the matter gets complicated: state and official funerals are currently granted at the discretion of the president. The president, in this case, is not only head of state but also Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces, and heroes funerals are, by their very nature, military ceremonies.
This intersection of political authority, military tradition, and public expectation is precisely why Namibia needs clear and fair criteria. As it stands, the decision to grant a state funeral often appears arbitrary, influenced by politics, public sentiment, or the stature of the individual within ruling party structures. That is no way to run a system that deals with something as symbolic and emotionally charged as honouring the dead.
South Africa offers an instructive example. There, state funerals are categorised into two types: State Funeral Category 1 is reserved for sitting and former presidents and deputy presidents, while Category 2 covers individuals who have made an extraordinary contribution to the nation. In addition, there is a clear distinction between state funerals and provincial funerals. State funerals are national events, involving the presidency, military honours, and nationwide mourning. Provincial funerals, however, are organised by the provincial government for figures of major regional importance, such as premiers, speakers of provincial legislatures, and cultural icons whose influence is significant but localised. The process involves the Presidency, the Department of Public Works, and, crucially, published budgetary and ceremonial guidelines.
Perhaps Namibia could adopt a similar approach by distinguishing between State Funerals for national figures and Regional Funerals for individuals whose contributions were of exceptional significance within a specific region. This would both manage costs and ensure recognition is given appropriately without creating unnecessary political controversy.
Zimbabwe, too, has a Heroes Acre, and the designation of “national hero” is deeply political, decided by the ruling party’s politburo. That system has often been criticised for excluding deserving figures who were not in political favour. Namibia, with our own Heroes Acre, runs the same risk. If there’s no independent or transparent process, the perception will always linger that the decision is more about party loyalty than national service.
Kenya recently refined its approach. There, the president may grant a state funeral, but a public honours committee makes recommendations based on a set of published criteria, including the deceased’s contribution to the country’s development, the uniqueness of their service, and whether their legacy transcends partisan politics. This process doesn’t erase disagreements, but it provides the public with a framework.
Namibia has reached the point where such a framework is no longer optional. The moratorium offers the perfect window to fix the problem. The president should consider establishing an independent National Honours and Memorials Committee. This body could include historians, representatives from the military, cultural leaders, and civil society. Its job would be to vet nominations for state, official, and heroes funerals against published, measurable criteria.
Such criteria should cover:
- Scope of Contribution: Did the person’s work or sacrifice significantly advance the nation’s welfare, security, or international standing?
- National Impact: Did their influence extend beyond their professional sphere into shaping Namibia’s identity or values?
- Legacy and Integrity: Is their legacy one that unites rather than divides, and does it stand up to public scrutiny?
- Diversity of Recognition: Does the system fairly represent contributions across politics, military, arts, sciences, and public service?
The benefits of such a system are obvious. First, it removes the perception that funerals are political rewards. Second, it prevents the kind of emotional disputes we saw with Dr. Amweelo, and will likely see again if criteria remain undefined. Third, it allows the state to manage costs without appearing disrespectful. State funerals are expensive affairs, often running into millions of Namibian dollars, including logistics, ceremonial guards, and VIP travel. In times of economic strain, taxpayers have a right to ask whether such funds are justified.
This is not to say the nation should become cold or transactional about honouring its distinguished dead. Quite the opposite. Ceremonies of national mourning can unite us, inspire young people, and remind us of our shared story. But they should be moments of dignity, not political theatre. When the rules are clear, the mourning is cleaner, free from speculation, free from whispers of “favouritism” or “punishment.”
President Nandi-Ndaitwah has, so far, shown herself to be a pragmatist, a quality Namibia needs in this chapter of our democracy. By calling a halt to state funerals, she has bought the government time to think. That time should not be wasted. The opportunity now is to create a fair, transparent, and sustainable way of deciding who is honoured by the nation in death.
In the absence of clear rules, every high-profile death becomes a potential flashpoint. Every refusal to grant a state funeral becomes an insult to some, and every approval becomes a political calculation. That’s not healthy for a young democracy still shaping its traditions.
When the late Archbishop Desmond Tutu died in South Africa, he was given a special official funeral, not a state funeral — in line with his family’s wishes and the government’s criteria. There was no controversy, because the system was clear. When Tanzania’s former president Benjamin Mkapa died, he was accorded a state funeral without question, because the criteria left no room for debate. Namibia should aim for that level of predictability.
We cannot change the fact that funerals are emotional. But we can change how we decide who gets which honour. The president’s moratorium, whether intentional or not, has opened a space for national reflection. It’s time to use it wisely. Let us design a system that respects our heroes, manages our resources, and, above all, unites us in the moments when we need unity most.
If we get this right, the next time a great Namibian passes, the only thing the nation will argue about is how best to remember them, not whether they “deserve” to be remembered at all.
