…..Amid Hardship and Broken Promises
By Amos Harris
Beneath the relentless Liberian sun, along the bustling SKD Boulevard, a stark tableau of hardship unfolds behind the imposing Ministry of Health. Thirty-year-old Fatu Jimmy, her brow furrowed with exhaustion, is a testament to the enduring struggles faced by many in this post-war nation. Hour after hour, she hunches over unforgiving piles of jagged stones, her calloused hands wielding a heavy hammer to shatter the rocks into meager gravel – her only means of providing for her young family.
A faded piece of cloth offers scant protection to her five-month-old infant, who lies quietly beside her amidst the dust and debris. Two older children, their futures hanging precariously in the balance, wait with quiet anticipation for the small sustenance their mother’s arduous labor might yield.
“This work is backbreaking, it truly is,” Fatu confided in GNN-Liberia, her voice weary but resolute. “But what choice do I have? If I don’t do this, my children will not have the chance to learn, to go to school. We were promised a better life, but we are still trapped in the grip of poverty, right here in our own country.”
Fatu’s poignant narrative echoes the harsh reality for countless Liberians, with women disproportionately bearing the brunt of the nation’s persistent economic instability and the lingering shadow of political disillusionment. The optimism that flickered briefly following six years under former President George Weah’s “Pro-Poor Agenda” has largely been extinguished. Many, like Fatu, had placed their hopes in the “national rescue mission” championed by President Joseph Nyuma Boakai during his election campaign. However, the tangible impact of this promised rescue remains elusive for those toiling at the margins of society.
“President Boakai spoke of rescuing Liberians,” Fatu said, a hint of despair coloring her tone, “but we are yet to feel the warmth of his government’s embrace. Where is this rescue mission for people like us? We are suffering on every front.”
Despite actively participating in the democratic process, enduring the elements to cast their votes and campaign for change, Fatu laments that the anticipated transformation has dissolved into a gnawing sense of frustration and weary resignation. “We invested our hopes and our efforts, but we are not seeing any returns. This is a profound and deeply troubling situation,” she expressed.
Adding to their woes, even the rudimentary but crucial stone-crushing trade, traditionally a source of income, however grueling, for numerous women, now faces an existential threat from external competition. “The Chinese are now engaged in the very same work,” Fatu explained, her voice tinged with resentment, “and their presence is suffocating us, the citizens. We are losing our already meager customer base.”
Her plea to the Boakai administration carries the weight of desperation and urgency. “We implore the President to come and witness our plight firsthand. We desperately need opportunities for our children to build a better future. We need genuine empowerment, not just empty promises that evaporate like morning mist.”
The narrative of hardship extends beyond the bustling boulevard. In other corners of Montserrado County, elderly women like Comfort Ben and Gladdy Morris have also been forced to embrace the same backbreaking labor as a means of survival in their twilight years. Widowed by Liberia’s devastating civil war, they now spend their days crushing rocks within the neglected compound of an unfinished government facility – a structure ironically intended to serve as a sanctuary for the elderly.
“We are left with no alternative but to break these stones,” Gladdy Morris stated, her aging frame bent with the effort. “If only someone would offer us a small amount of capital to start a petty business, we would gladly leave this arduous work behind.”
The intended old folks home, a symbol of broken promises and unfulfilled obligations, stands desolate and incomplete. Patrolled by security guards from Zidaner Construction Company, who remain tight-lipped about the reasons for the stalled construction, the facility offers no comfort or respite. There are no mattresses to ease aching bones, no lights to pierce the darkness, and no running water to quench thirst – only the stark reality of dashed hopes and governmental neglect.
“Our own government has seemingly abandoned us,” one elderly resident lamented, their voice filled with a mixture of sorrow and anger. “We are left to toil like this in our old age, without any form of protection. If a stone fragment strikes your eye, you risk permanent blindness.”
As the Boakai administration settles into the responsibilities of governance, the voices of ordinary Liberians, particularly its most vulnerable – women and the elderly – are growing increasingly insistent. Theirs is not a plea for mere handouts or fleeting charity; it is a demand for genuine inclusion, for a meaningful stake in a national development plan that once promised tangible relief and comprehensive restoration.
In a nation still grappling with the deep scars of war, these women stand as frontline victims of protracted governance delays, the pressures of foreign economic competition, and what they perceive as systemic neglect. They seek more than just sympathetic words; they demand concrete action that translates into tangible improvements in their daily lives.
“Let the promised rescue mission truly begin,” Fatu Jimmy urged, her gaze unwavering. “Let it begin here, with us, the forgotten faces of Liberia.”
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