Stanley Kambonde
The Kunene Region has become Namibia’s next mining frontier, with copper driving exploration and extraction at both small and large scales. Yet as investors rush north-west, a troubling pattern is emerging: the very communities living on these lands remain excluded from decisions that shape their futures.
For years, the tourism industry has reinforced a romanticised image of the Ovahimba as timeless, semi-nomadic pastoralists — “unspoilt remnants” of ancient Africa. The state and development agencies have echoed this portrayal, treating them as “underdeveloped” people in need of modernisation. But the Ovahimba, Ovatjimba, and Ovatue are pushing back. They are challenging this outdated narrative and exposing how Namibia’s legal framework still sidelines them from meaningful participation in the mining economy.
A legal maze without a map
Regulation 30 of the General Regulations under the Communal Land Reform Act 5 of 2002 requires traditional authorities to make recommendations about mining activities on communal land. However, the Ministry of Mines and Energy has interpreted this as a requirement for letters of consent. This unofficial interpretation — never gazetted or supported by formal policy — has bred confusion and conflict. The Minerals Act remains silent on the matter, while the Environmental Management Act only calls for consultation, not consent, during the issuing of Environmental Clearance Certificates.
The confusion deepened in 2024 when the Mining Commissioner issued a memorandum misinterpreting Section 16 of the Minerals Act, requiring mining-claim applicants to first secure consent from Exclusive Prospecting Licence (EPL) holders. EPL holders often refuse consent, yet they themselves must obtain approval from traditional authorities representing the same communities whose members are being denied consent — creating a circular deadlock.
This tug-of-war has turned into a power struggle, with chiefs and traditional authorities effectively retaliating on behalf of their communities. The result is procedural paralysis: projects stall, trust erodes, and no one can determine whose approval actually counts.
Chiefs are not the community
Officials must grasp a simple truth: a chief’s signature is not the community’s voice. Chiefs endorse decisions made collectively by their people. When the law treats a chief’s signature as full community consent, it weakens communal governance and fuels mistrust. Consultation cannot be reduced to ticking boxes. Genuine participation requires acknowledging the deep cultural roots and long history of dispossession that shape these communities.
The principle of Free, Prior and Informed Consent (FPIC) provides a transparent and fair standard. FPIC requires that affected communities be fully informed and consulted before any project begins — and that their consent guide approvals, not merely serve as recommendations.
Namibia urgently needs to incorporate FPIC into its mining and communal land laws, with clear, culturally appropriate guidelines. The government should also extend the jurisdiction of the Minerals Ancillary Rights Commission — which currently mediates disputes only on private farms — to cover conflicts on communal land. This would create fair spaces for negotiation instead of leaving communities and investors in perpetual conflict.
A history that shapes the present
Understanding why consultation is so complex in Kunene means understanding its history. Livestock herding in Kaokoland, often depicted as ancient, actually evolved through centuries of disruption. In the 1800s, raids by the Topnaars and Swaartboois devastated Herero settlements, forcing families either to flee north into Angola or retreat into Kaokoland’s mountains. Those who crossed the Kunene became the Ovahimba, maintaining pastoralism while trading with Portuguese merchants. Those who stayed behind became the Tjimba, surviving through foraging and small-scale trade.
Colonial land deals deepened this displacement. In 1885, Swartbooi and Topnaar leaders sold Kaokoland to Ludwig Koch — agent to Adolf Lüderitz — on behalf of the Deutsche Kolonialgesellschaft für Südwestafrika (DKGSWA), which later sold it to the Kaoko Land- und Minengesellschaft (KLMG) in London. By 1894, more than 100,000 square kilometres, including today’s Opuwo and Khorixas, had been traded on the international stock market.
When South Africa took over in 1920, it intensified isolation. Government Notice 122 of 1923 divided Kaokoland into three reserves, each with its own chief — Vita Tom for the Herero, Muhona Katiti for the Himba, and Kahewa-Nawa for the Tjimba. This policy entrenched separate governance systems and shaped how different communities view authority, land, and development. A one-size-fits-all approach to consultation cannot work in such a diverse cultural landscape.
Moving forward
When KLMG lost its holdings in 1920, the region’s economy collapsed. Trade restrictions and livestock bans deepened poverty. By the mid-twentieth century, decades of isolation had turned the Ovahimba, Ovatjimba, and Ovatue into what the government now calls “traditional livestock keepers.” But that label conceals a painful legacy of lost autonomy and exclusion.
Today, policymakers must confront that legacy. Mining in Kunene will not succeed through legislation alone. It needs social legitimacy — and legitimacy begins with listening. Implementing FPIC with clear and culturally grounded guidelines will protect community rights, build trust, and make investment sustainable.
Development in Kaokoland must no longer echo colonial patterns of silence and exclusion. Before the first shovel breaks the copper-rich soil, the voices of those who have lived on it for centuries must finally be heard.
