When I applied for the WOSSO Fellowship, I had a neat little plan in mind: work with five men from the village, have honest conversations about gender-based violence (GBV), and hopefully, shift a few attitudes along the way.
I had no idea I was unleashing a movement with a mind — and legs — of its own.
Let me explain.
The men’s group was supposed to have five members. That was the goal. Manageable, focused, intentional. Fast forward to today, and we’re sitting at seven men… and counting. The women’s group? Also growing.
I feel like I’m a passenger on a very determined train, watching the WOSSO Advocacy Plan roll full speed ahead — driven by the community, fueled by real stories, and refusing to stick to my original spreadsheet.
And honestly? I love it.
On Monday, the 14th of April 2025, before our latest men’s group meeting, I had a pivotal conversation with SAPS about a major barrier to justice in our villages: distance.
The police station is kilometers away, and for many, especially GBV survivors, that journey is simply impossible.
So, the men’s group — now an unofficial task force — and I are writing to SAPS at provincial and national levels to request a mobile police station with a victim-friendly room. A space where survivors can be heard, supported, and protected with dignity.
This is what policy engagement looks like when it’s born from lived realities. We’re not just raising awareness — we’re proposing solutions.
Now, back to the men’s group.
This latest session? Electric. We didn’t just talk GBV — we stepped right into the fire of cultural leadership. Our village has had the same male chief since 1994, and the community is now seriously considering the possibility of a female chief.
That’s not a whisper anymore — it’s a full-blown conversation in motion.
What surprised many (myself included) was the generational twist: older men were the ones defending women’s right to lead, while some younger men were... let’s just say, less enthusiastic. We didn’t shy away from it. We debated. We laughed. We challenged.
And most importantly, we included a man living with a disability for the first time in our group. His presence and contributions were deeply moving — a reminder of how important it is to include all voices in conversations about justice and equity. The group felt it. I felt it.
Then came the "backlash" discussion. Try explaining that word in a village context and watch people blink at you. But once we broke it down — what backlash looks like, how it feels — something clicked.
One man brought up Umam Pumzile Mlambo-Ngcuka and Unkosikazi Nkosazana Dlamini-Zuma, saying he believed they were undermined because they are women. Another was genuinely shocked to learn Namibia currently has a female president (yes, bro — it’s 2025!). These were lightbulb moments. These were shifts.
Of course, not everyone agreed. Some of the younger men dug in: “Women should stick to their roles,” one said. But before I could jump in, one of the older men clapped back: “What roles? We’ve been leading since 1994 and look where we are!”
The room erupted in laughter and more conversation. Even folks passing by joined in. At this point, it’s no longer a project — it’s a movement with open enrollment.
But we’re not stopping there. This advocacy plan is starting to look dangerously close to a revolution — and we want to take it to schools next. One of our long-term goals is to influence national education policy: we want gender justice and women’s rights taught as a standalone subject.
Not tucked inside Life Orientation, not as an optional topic — but real, structured curriculum that shapes young minds before harmful attitudes take root.
When I applied for the WOSSO Fellowship, I expected awareness-raising and maybe a few policy nudges. I never imagined a grassroots movement shaping policy ideas, transforming attitudes, and turning villages into classrooms of change.
With the fellowship winding down, I’m proud to be part of the WOSSO Resource Mobilization Hub — where we’re now asking the big question: How do we sustain this? How do we keep this fire burning when the formal program ends? Because what we’ve built here in Ndofela is bigger than a plan. It’s a powerful, living thing. And, in case I didn’t mention — it’s still running itself.
And honestly? I’m just trying to keep up.
Before I wrap this up, let me take a moment — in true rural dramatic fashion — to shout a massive thank you to the WOSSO Fellowship team. You thought you were just funding a tiny village project, but you accidentally lit a whole advocacy fire in Ndofela!
On behalf of myself, the ever-growing men’s group, the fierce women’s group, and probably the village goats who’ve overheard these conversations, thank you for this life-changing opportunity. You’ve given me the tools to extend my activism into dusty roads, kraals, and unexpected living room debates.
Honestly, WOSSO, you might’ve just created Ndofela’s first runaway policy train — and I’m just here waving from the passenger seat, screaming “we’re still going!”
