On September 27–28, 2025, Hamburg took a historic step toward justice by renaming two streets in honor of Louisa Kamana and Cornelius Fredericks—Namibians who resisted German colonial rule and were among those who perished during the Ovaherero and Nama genocides.

As a descendant of genocide victims and the person who nominated Louisa Kamana, I extend heartfelt gratitude to all who supported this initiative.

These names do more than honour individuals. They confront a legacy of colonial violence and silence. Renaming streets is not just symbolic—it is a public act of truth-telling, a refusal to forget.

Louisa Kamana was only twenty-four when she was murdered in 1903. While traveling with her husband and newborn, she offered a ride to a German trader named Dietrich. That night, he attempted to rape her. When she resisted, he shot and killed her. Her family’s status forced the case into court, but Dietrich was initially acquitted. Only after public outrage did he receive a minimal sentence and was sent back to Germany—shielded from true accountability.

Louisa’s murder was no anomaly. Violence was a systemic instrument of colonial domination. From the forced concubinage, rape, and enslavement of women in labor camps after the defeat of the Khauas Nama in 1890, to the 1893 massacre at Hoornkranz—where German forces killed seventy-eight women and children—the brutality was widespread, targeted, and deliberate.

Firsthand accounts from the British Bluebook expose the scale and cruelty of this violence:

Chief David Swartbooi: “Our women were violated and made to act as concubines. A German lieutenant demanded a young girl, Sarah. When her father refused, he was beaten and killed. The girl was taken…”

Willem Christian: “A white man could do as he pleased. Our women and girls were constantly molested… We were beaten if we intervened.”

Between 1904 and 1908, German violence escalated to horrifying new levels. Women were shot and bayoneted in the desert, enslaved in labor camps, burned alive in huts, forced to clean the remains of loved ones, had their bodies shipped abroad for racist “scientific study,” and were raped—sometimes before execution.  Women endured compounded violence—facing not only the brutality of war but also targeted sexual humiliation, abuse, and rape.

Genocide survivors testified to the horrific treatment and rape of women.

Gerard Kamaheke: “Our women and girls were assaulted and made concubines. Windhoek is full of children born from German soldiers and Herero women.”

Traugot Tjijenda: “Herero women were forced into labor and sexual relations with soldiers… Young girls were raped in the bush…”

Rape was not only degrading—it was deadly. Many died from internal injuries, untreated diseases, or repeated assault. The spread of sexually transmitted diseases became so widespread that colonial authorities began to fear for the health of the white population—revealing just how little regard they had for Ovambanderu, Ovaherero and Name women. 

In 1906, German authorities enacted a law banning sexual relations between Africans and Germans—not to protect victims, but to preserve white racial purity and suppress acknowledgment of mixed-race children. This law deepened the violence, as perpetrators concealed their crimes through beatings and murder.

Even after the camps closed in 1908, abuse continued. Women and girls were sent to settler households, where rape and coercion remained constant threats.

These are not distant facts—they are my embodied legacy. My great-grandparents, Rapote Murangi and Katjiukua Murangi ua Kavari, died during the genocide—he in battle at Ohamakari, she in the desert. Their daughters—Inaambako, Kavihira, Tjizake, and Lydia—were captured, placed in camps, and later sent to work for settlers.

Inaambako Tjiroze was raped by General Victor Franke—buried in Hamburg—and bore two sons.

Kavihira Tjiposa ua Murangi was raped by a man named Korash and gave birth to Kaaharo Murangi, my maternal grandfather.

Tjizake Murangi was raped by Albert Meinhart and gave birth to Kaengombe Murangi, my paternal grandmother.

Lydia Tembo did not bear children.

My maternal grandmother, Kaendaupure Tjituka, was raped by a man named Schmidt.

This is my history—but it is also the shared history of countless Ovambanderu, Ovaherero, and Nama families. For too long, the sexual atrocities committed during the genocide have been denied, minimized, or erased from public memory. That silence is not accidental—it reflects a deliberate effort to obscure the full scope of colonial violence.

We must resist that erasure. Renaming streets in honor of Louisa Kamana and Cornelius Fredericks helps restore dignity to the violated and silenced. It confronts denial. And it ensures that history cannot be rewritten to exclude the voices of those who suffered.

Germany’s colonial past must not be obscured by sanitized narratives. Justice demands full recognition and accountability. Germany must formally acknowledge these atrocities, support truth-telling, and commit to meaningful restitution.

– Dr. Kavemuii Murangi is founder of the USA based Ovaherero/Mbanderu and Nama Genocides Institute (ONGI)