Egpaar se stryd om te oorleef in Windhoek
'n Bejaarde vrou sit op 'n houtstoel met geswelde voete en 'n moeë hart en deel die hartverskeurende verhaal van hoe sy en haar man dakloos geword het. Haar vel, wat steeds genees van jou sonbrande, vertel van baie dae wat onder die onvergewensgesinde Namibiese son deurgebring is.
Her voice, though soft, carries the weight of hardship, loss, and an uncertain future. Beside her, she clutches a glass of water as she recounts their journey of displacement, desperation, and resilience.
The couple’s ordeal began long before December 11 - the day they officially lost their home. They had struggled for months to make ends meet. Their rent became unaffordable after a single loss that changed everything - a death they had not directly experienced but a financial burden they could no longer carry. The eviction was swift and merciless. Physically removed from their rented space, they were thrust into a reality they had never imagined - one where home was nowhere to be found.
Their belongings, now reduced to what could fit in two suitcases, were left outside under a shelter. Attempts to secure a storage unit for their remaining possessions were futile; every space was either occupied or too expensive. With nowhere to turn, they wandered the streets, hoping for shelter, safety, and a glimmer of kindness.
Seeking help, finding despair
Their first stop was the ministry of gender equality, a place where they had hoped to find support. The woman’s husband, who had suffered from a facial disability since 2016, needed assistance. His condition, which affected his eyesight, made it impossible for him to work. Yet, the bureaucratic process was slow and unyielding, leaving them in limbo with no immediate help in sight.
As the sun set on that fateful December day, they found themselves outside the central hospital—waiting, hoping. They sat on the cold ground until ten o’clock that night, not knowing where to go. Strangers passed them by, indifferent to their plight. The security guards, bound by regulations, told them they could not stay there.
“So we left, and then one thing after another happened,” she recalled. Her husband managed to find them a taxi, and the driver—polite and patient—took them to a shelter. “He was a very kind taxi driver. He waited a while to make sure we got in. But we rang the bell again and again with no answer,” she said.
Her husband did not give up. He walked further down the alley and spotted a security guard at a nearby church. The guard refused to give them a phone number but called the woman in charge. “The woman who finally answered was extremely rude. She said we had woken her up at that time of night. She told us the shelter was closed for the holidays and would only reopen on January 8,” she said, tears welling in her eyes.
They then decided to go to State House. “We asked the security there if there was anyone we could talk to, but the woman was unfriendly. The office was also closed due to the holiday season. Desperate, we called Nampol and informed them of our situation. Eventually, we had to call the City Police. They picked us up with our suitcases and took us to the police station.”
They spent three days stuck in the prosecutor’s office until the station commander arrived. “On the other side, hearings were taking place for people in line, and the staff behind the counter made their opinions known about how bad our situation was. They reminded us that the police station was a public place and that we did not belong there,” she continued.
They were forced to leave with nowhere to go. Without giving up, they went to the Catholic hospital, but then it started raining. “We met a very kind security guard at one of their security posts, but it was in vain. When another guard found out about our situation, he told us to leave. We just wanted to sit on the benches outside, but we were constantly moved along.”
They continued their search and went to Post Street Mall for a place to sleep. “We then met a man we had known years ago—a very decent person, friendly and hopeful. But today, he sits there with nothing.”
They had nothing with them as the night grew colder. “One night, someone gave us hospital blankets to cover ourselves, but we had to sleep on a wooden bench despite terrible muscle pain. That night, it started raining terribly, and the wind was freezing,” she recalled, becoming more emotional.
A relative brought her a blanket but stood there judging them. “He insulted my husband. I was cold, upset, and just cried. My legs trembled, and my whole life was in shambles.” Her husband called an ambulance and took her to the hospital. “The doctors at Katutura Hospital were very helpful, despite people saying they don’t do much,” she said with a small smile.
“I stopped drinking water because of the lack of toilet facilities, and I just couldn’t go in. It caused me kidney failure,” she continued. “Imagine a week without bathing. Sitting in my wheelchair 24/7 because I couldn’t sleep on the cold benches every week. When you spoke, the wind carried your voice away, and soon, you had no one left to speak to because you no longer had a voice,” she said with emotion.
A pastor they knew paid for their accommodation—but only until Wednesday. “We have knocked on closed doors forever whenever we sought help. Just when we thought things would get better, we have to start from scratch. It truly breaks my heart,” she said, holding back tears.
An uncertain tomorrow
As the 83-year-old pensioner finished her story, her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She did not ask for pity, only for understanding. Their journey was not just about losing a home but about losing dignity, security, and the basic human right to shelter. “We just need a remote place to stay, as long as we have a roof and a safe place,” she pleaded.
With each passing day, the couple waits, hoping for a break—for a chance to rebuild. Until then, they remain in the shadows of Windhoek’s streets, clutching their suitcases, searching for a place to belong.
The couple’s ordeal began long before December 11 - the day they officially lost their home. They had struggled for months to make ends meet. Their rent became unaffordable after a single loss that changed everything - a death they had not directly experienced but a financial burden they could no longer carry. The eviction was swift and merciless. Physically removed from their rented space, they were thrust into a reality they had never imagined - one where home was nowhere to be found.
Their belongings, now reduced to what could fit in two suitcases, were left outside under a shelter. Attempts to secure a storage unit for their remaining possessions were futile; every space was either occupied or too expensive. With nowhere to turn, they wandered the streets, hoping for shelter, safety, and a glimmer of kindness.
Seeking help, finding despair
Their first stop was the ministry of gender equality, a place where they had hoped to find support. The woman’s husband, who had suffered from a facial disability since 2016, needed assistance. His condition, which affected his eyesight, made it impossible for him to work. Yet, the bureaucratic process was slow and unyielding, leaving them in limbo with no immediate help in sight.
As the sun set on that fateful December day, they found themselves outside the central hospital—waiting, hoping. They sat on the cold ground until ten o’clock that night, not knowing where to go. Strangers passed them by, indifferent to their plight. The security guards, bound by regulations, told them they could not stay there.
“So we left, and then one thing after another happened,” she recalled. Her husband managed to find them a taxi, and the driver—polite and patient—took them to a shelter. “He was a very kind taxi driver. He waited a while to make sure we got in. But we rang the bell again and again with no answer,” she said.
Her husband did not give up. He walked further down the alley and spotted a security guard at a nearby church. The guard refused to give them a phone number but called the woman in charge. “The woman who finally answered was extremely rude. She said we had woken her up at that time of night. She told us the shelter was closed for the holidays and would only reopen on January 8,” she said, tears welling in her eyes.
They then decided to go to State House. “We asked the security there if there was anyone we could talk to, but the woman was unfriendly. The office was also closed due to the holiday season. Desperate, we called Nampol and informed them of our situation. Eventually, we had to call the City Police. They picked us up with our suitcases and took us to the police station.”
They spent three days stuck in the prosecutor’s office until the station commander arrived. “On the other side, hearings were taking place for people in line, and the staff behind the counter made their opinions known about how bad our situation was. They reminded us that the police station was a public place and that we did not belong there,” she continued.
They were forced to leave with nowhere to go. Without giving up, they went to the Catholic hospital, but then it started raining. “We met a very kind security guard at one of their security posts, but it was in vain. When another guard found out about our situation, he told us to leave. We just wanted to sit on the benches outside, but we were constantly moved along.”
They continued their search and went to Post Street Mall for a place to sleep. “We then met a man we had known years ago—a very decent person, friendly and hopeful. But today, he sits there with nothing.”
They had nothing with them as the night grew colder. “One night, someone gave us hospital blankets to cover ourselves, but we had to sleep on a wooden bench despite terrible muscle pain. That night, it started raining terribly, and the wind was freezing,” she recalled, becoming more emotional.
A relative brought her a blanket but stood there judging them. “He insulted my husband. I was cold, upset, and just cried. My legs trembled, and my whole life was in shambles.” Her husband called an ambulance and took her to the hospital. “The doctors at Katutura Hospital were very helpful, despite people saying they don’t do much,” she said with a small smile.
“I stopped drinking water because of the lack of toilet facilities, and I just couldn’t go in. It caused me kidney failure,” she continued. “Imagine a week without bathing. Sitting in my wheelchair 24/7 because I couldn’t sleep on the cold benches every week. When you spoke, the wind carried your voice away, and soon, you had no one left to speak to because you no longer had a voice,” she said with emotion.
A pastor they knew paid for their accommodation—but only until Wednesday. “We have knocked on closed doors forever whenever we sought help. Just when we thought things would get better, we have to start from scratch. It truly breaks my heart,” she said, holding back tears.
An uncertain tomorrow
As the 83-year-old pensioner finished her story, her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She did not ask for pity, only for understanding. Their journey was not just about losing a home but about losing dignity, security, and the basic human right to shelter. “We just need a remote place to stay, as long as we have a roof and a safe place,” she pleaded.
With each passing day, the couple waits, hoping for a break—for a chance to rebuild. Until then, they remain in the shadows of Windhoek’s streets, clutching their suitcases, searching for a place to belong.
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