If Namibia’s challenges could be solved by replacing older leaders with younger ones, the country would already be on a dramatically different trajectory.
Youth unemployment would be falling, institutions would be stronger, and public trust would be rising. Instead, the opposite is true. Yet our public discourse increasingly insists that the central problem is generational: that young people are deliberately held back by an older generation unwilling to let go. It is a convenient narrative, simple, emotive, and politically useful. It is also largely misleading.
Namibia is a young country by any measure. Roughly 70% of the population is under the age of 35, a proportion significantly higher than the global average and above the continental norm. In theory, this should constitute a demographic advantage, offering energy, innovation, and long-term economic potential. In practice, it has coincided with persistent youth unemployment, limited upward mobility, and growing frustration. Youth advocacy has therefore gained prominence, and understandably so.
There is nothing inherently wrong with advocating for the advancement of young people. Advocacy has been central to Namibia’s political history. The difficulty arises when legitimate demands are framed through a narrative of generational antagonism—one that casts the older generation as deliberate gatekeepers whose primary motivation is fear and self-preservation.
This framing is emotionally compelling but analytically weak. It collapses complex structural problems—such as slow economic growth, skills mismatches, limited industrial diversification, and institutional rigidity—into a moral conflict between young and old. It also overstates the degree of discretionary power exercised by older leaders, many of whom operate within severe fiscal, legal, and bureaucratic constraints that restrict meaningful reform regardless of age.
At the same time, the response from sections of the older generation has been equally counterproductive. Youth leaders and advocates are frequently dismissed as inexperienced noise-makers—“vuvuzelas” more interested in visibility and personal advancement than in substantive change. This group views youth inclusion as a failed “experiment”, arguing that giving young people responsibility has weakened institutions and harmed national performance. The conclusion is that youth must be kept “in their place” until they somehow prove readiness, often according to vague and shifting criteria.
This position confuses caution with exclusion. Where young leaders have struggled in senior roles, the failure is rarely individual. More often, it is systemic. Young people are appointed into complex positions without mentorship, authority, or institutional support, then expected to perform under intense scrutiny in already strained systems. Their inevitable difficulties are then cited as evidence that youth leadership itself is flawed.
Compounding the problem is the symbolic use of youth in public life. Young professionals are often elevated as proof of inclusion—displayed as evidence that transformation is occurring—while being detached from meaningful youth advocacy or decision-making power. Once inside elite structures, many quickly learn that survival depends on conformity rather than reform. They become representatives without agency. This deepens cynicism among young people and reinforces older sceptics who see youth advocacy as performative.
The result is a breakdown of trust between generations. Young people feel patronised and excluded; older generations feel attacked and delegitimised. Institutional memory is undervalued, innovation is treated with suspicion, and policy continuity suffers. The country advances incrementally, only to lose momentum because underlying tensions remain unresolved.
Escaping this cycle requires abandoning the myth of intergenerational conflict and confronting the real challenge: how to align experience with innovation in a constrained national context. Experience and youth are not opposing forces. Older generations bring historical perspective, institutional knowledge, and technical competence. Younger generations bring adaptability, technological fluency, and a willingness to question inherited assumptions. Sustainable governance depends on integrating these strengths.
This requires deliberate leadership development. Youth inclusion cannot mean premature elevation into high-risk roles without preparation. Namibia needs structured mentorship programmes within public institutions, phased leadership responsibilities, and intergenerational teams that deliberately pair experience with emerging talent. Leadership must be treated as a process of transmission, not a prize to be captured or defended.
Youth advocacy must also mature. Movements built primarily on grievance and generational blame may mobilise attention, but they rarely deliver durable policy outcomes. Evidence-based proposals, institutional engagement, and accountability mechanisms are more effective tools for long-term change.
Equally, older generations must interrogate their own assumptions. Protecting standards and competence is legitimate; protecting monopolies of influence is not. Making space for youth does not mean abandoning responsibility—it means exercising it through mentorship, succession planning, and shared authority.
Namibia’s challenge is not a war between generations. It is a failure of trust, transmission, and cooperation. Until we move beyond this false conflict, the country will continue to take one step forward and two steps back. Progress will come not from choosing a generation, but from choosing collaboration.
