Muzzled Justice: Who Orders Killing in the Name of Order?

Luís Júnior"

I don't understand how we can live in a country where the authority we chose to protect us turns into our executioner. In the name of "order," gunshots bury any illusion of democracy in the early hours of the morning, bodies fall on the street, and minutes later, the perpetrators of the murders spit in the face of those who still believe in justice. I ask myself every day: who orders killings in the name of order?

In Matola, they were murdered. On Wednesday, July 2nd, two senior PRM officers were murdered in Infulene, Manduca. António Domingos Cavalo, chief inspector of Maputo's 7th police station, and Abílio Janeiro, a SERNIC agent, were shot 54 times. Fifty-four. In broad daylight. In the middle of the street. Shameless, undisguised. The police became a target, the city a hunting ground.

In the midst of the shooting, a 78-year-old woman was hit by a stray bullet—but in this country, nothing is truly "lost." Everything has an address. Meanwhile, the perpetrators were probably smiling behind air-conditioned desks, with hot coffee and an escort at the door. Two days later, on July 4th, four more men were executed at point-blank range near the Tribunal bus stop, next to the ANC monument and the Matola Health Center. Bodies were dumped in the car and on the road, as if they were garbage. It was the third massacre of its kind in less than a month. The city smelled of gunpowder and impunity.

The "investigation" is a joke in poor taste. Faceless suspects, evaporating evidence, deafening silence—and, in the end, as always, no one is inside. No one. This is not justice. This is a macabre spectacle, with armed actors and silent extras. It's a theater of horror where the State pretends to govern and we pretend to be alive. Is this justice or a theater of horror?

On the streets, peaceful protesters were met with rubber bullets and weapons of war by the same officers who swore to defend the Constitution. Six police officers were even convicted—but with three months' suspended sentences and a symbolic fine. Punishment or disguised honor?

Opposition politicians fall into ambushes without explanation: Mondlane's lawyer and Guambe, the president, are killed without a face to identify. Militants from smaller parties fall before sunrise, without a serious investigation, without arrest warrants, and without the names of those who ordered them. Who decides who lives and who dies in my country?

Meanwhile, official statistics report 96 post-election deaths; human rights organizations report 300. Discrepancy? No. It's a reflection of a state that chooses how many lives it wants to recognize. These are manipulated numbers, lives transformed into fact sheets. Here, death has the status of political data.

And the people? We're left to share our fear in daily doses: "Don't go to that area," "Don't cause trouble," "Don't open your mouth." We're forced to lock away our right to indignation, to muzzle our voices so as not to anger those who wield guns and badges. Where has the right to demand real security gone?

Justice is muzzled because those who should be investigating it either participate in the crime or turn a blind eye. When a police officer is murdered, the case dies. When a leader of the people falls, the case dies. When a protester is injured, no one sees it. Impunity has become the unwritten law.

It's time to tear away the veil of complicity. Demand not just investigations, but results. Real punishments, with those who ordered and executed the crimes brought to justice. Transparency regarding police operations. Human rights valued above "public order."

Because order without justice is tyranny. Those who kill in the name of order cannot continue to enjoy immunity. There is no room for excuses: impunity covers the streets of Matola and the entire country with blood. These murders are not mere numbers: they are open wounds in the body of the rule of law. Justice muzzled is a crime—and with each bullet fired, the credibility and soul of my country are buried a little deeper.

2025/12/3