Namibia woke up once again to the grim reality of gender-based violence intersecting with firearms and authority. In Khomasdal, a man believed to be a serving police officer allegedly shot his girlfriend before turning the gun on himself. The woman has reportedly survived and is receiving medical treatment. The man died at the scene. Police have confirmed the incident but have yet to release a full report.
These bare facts are disturbing enough. But beyond the tragedy of two lives violently altered lies a deeper and more troubling question: How did we arrive at a point where those entrusted to protect society increasingly appear in reports as perpetrators of domestic violence involving firearms?
Gender-based violence is not new in Namibia. What is new, and deeply alarming, is the frequency with which uniformed personnel are implicated in such incidents. Police officers and members of the Namibian Defence Force are trained in the use of lethal weapons, entrusted with public safety, and placed in positions of immense authority. When that authority and access to firearms migrate into private domestic disputes, the consequences are catastrophic.
The Khomasdal incident is not an isolated case. Over recent years, Namibia has witnessed a pattern of domestic violence incidents involving service weapons. Each time, public outrage flares briefly, condolences are offered, promises of investigation are made, and then silence returns until the next tragedy. This cycle must end. A nation cannot afford to treat such events as routine news items.
At the heart of this crisis is a question that authorities have thus far avoided answering clearly: What psychological screening, counseling, and continuous mental wellness monitoring exists for men and women in uniform who carry firearms daily?
Firearms are not merely tools of duty. They are instruments of irreversible consequence. In any society, granting an individual access to a weapon must come with rigorous safeguards, not only in technical training but also in psychological stability. Yet repeated incidents suggest that current systems are either inadequate or poorly enforced.
The police and defense forces routinely emphasize discipline, command structure, and operational readiness. But how much attention is paid to emotional regulation, relationship stress, trauma exposure, and domestic conflict? How many officers have access to confidential counseling without fear of stigma or professional consequence? How often are psychological evaluations conducted after high-stress assignments? How quickly are service weapons withdrawn when warning signs appear?
These are not academic questions. They are matters of life and death.
There is also the uncomfortable reality that institutions often close ranks when one of their own is implicated. Investigations become internal. Information is withheld in the name of “ongoing inquiries.” Identities remain unconfirmed for extended periods. While due process must be respected, transparency is equally essential. Public trust cannot be preserved if accountability appears selective.
When an officer allegedly uses a service firearm in a domestic shooting, this is not merely a private tragedy; it is a breach of institutional responsibility. The firearm was issued by the state. The authority was conferred by the state. The duty of oversight therefore lies squarely with the state.
Gender-based violence in Namibia has reached a point where many citizens have become desensitized. Each new report is met with weary resignation. That numbness is itself a national emergency. A society that becomes accustomed to violence against women has already lost a fundamental part of its moral compass.
Equally troubling is the message sent to victims. When perpetrators are members of powerful institutions, victims may fear reporting abuse, believing their complaints will be dismissed or minimized. This creates a dangerous silence around early warning signs, arguments escalating, threats being made, and controlling behavior until the situation explodes into irreversible harm.
The ministries responsible for security and defense must therefore answer directly: Do police and NDF members undergo mandatory psychological assessments beyond initial recruitment? Are there periodic mental health check-ups? Are officers trained to recognize personal distress and encouraged to seek help? Is there a confidential reporting system for spouses or partners who feel unsafe when a service firearm is present in the home? If such systems exist, why do tragedies continue to occur?
This newspaper is not calling for blanket condemnation of all officers or soldiers. The vast majority serve with professionalism and restraint. However, refusing to confront institutional weaknesses out of fear of “tarnishing the uniform” only ensures that further tragedies will follow.
Namibia must also urgently revisit firearm control within security services. Clear protocols must exist for the temporary removal of service weapons during domestic disputes, reported psychological distress, or ongoing investigations. Other nations have implemented such safeguards precisely to prevent domestic tragedies involving law enforcement officers. Namibia must learn from these examples rather than wait for more funerals.
The Khomasdal shooting is not simply another crime report. It is a warning signal. It tells us that violence in our society has seeped into spaces where discipline and restraint should be strongest. It tells us that unchecked stress, untreated trauma, and easy access to firearms form a deadly combination. And it tells us that institutional silence is no longer acceptable.
The victim in this case survived. That fact alone gives the nation an opportunity, not just to mourn, but to act. Before the next report arrives. Before the next hospital admission. Before the next body lies at a scene cordoned off by yellow tape.
If Namibia is serious about combating gender-based violence, then scrutiny must extend beyond ordinary citizens to the very institutions tasked with protecting them. The uniform must never become a shield behind which abuse hides.
The time for quiet concern has passed. What is now required is transparent investigation, public accountability, institutional reform and above all, a recognition that no badge, rank, or service record places anyone above scrutiny when lives are at stake.
Anything less would make the next tragedy not an accident, but an inevitability.
