AS dawn approaches the morning, the women and girls head out in search of water to beat the rush hour.
When the privileged ease from their slumber to start their day, the unfortunates have already made a mile of progress. By the day’s end, their female body is bruised, the spirit battered but the dream of a brighter future remains unchanged.
As the sun’s rays chase the darkness away and the shadows disappear, the real face of struggle can be visibly seen conglomerating at the sanctuary of the water pipe.
As far as the eye can see, desperados line the side of the road, women, now joined by men and children. It’s another day and another journey in the search for fresh water.
Port Moresby is a city where modernity has no respect for human rights. In the name of development, dreams are lost in the rubble.
Development brought broken pipes and dusty roads into most people’s lives while the young became pretenders, wannabes who have declared war on moral values and principles.
Respect and admiration for elders is no longer a norm as disobedience and gluttony have taken hold. While these young people are caught up in the euphoria of modernity, their folks are sweating and shedding tears of suffering to make ends meet. What a sad situation.
The light of hope is dimming, no more than specks of light flickering in the midst of a universe of doubt and confusion. There is no silver lining in the struggle for water. These poor people can only watch helplessly as the conmen and irresponsible flourish.
So they tramp to the common taps, slaves to the deficit of their own country. And, as they hear of destruction elsewhere, confusion reigns. They fear that soon they will join the mass exodus of displaced and hopeless city dwellers with no place to call home. They fear that their future is to drown in the same tears of sorrow.
Look at them, deprived of comfort, support and, increasingly, sanity. For years they have been on this journey in the hellhole of society in the unremitting search for water. Water, the well-spring of life and civilisation.
When dusk approaches, the hordes reappear like bees in search of the hive. Their number is more plentiful than in the morning as those who have finished the day’s work join them.
More men now in the slow march to the pipe. Like a colony of ants they scurry to the goal. Old and young battle the heat to quench their thirst, cool off or fetch water to be used for the household.
In a place abandoned by negligence and broken promises, every drop of water counts. The only time water becomes bountiful is when it rains and the settlement comes alive. It is the only time they are relieved from the daily burden of looking for water.
The journey to the spring of life seems to have no end. For some it’s a walk that they take to find God and change the direction of their future. For many it’s an intergenerational journey marking the continuing struggle.
The young kids grow up knowing they must bear some of the load. For few hours each day these kids see the suffering and hardship and they too can see no hope. Laughter and joy replaced by anguish and despair.
They have begun their thousand steps to water. And, like the generation before, they hope water is on its way and that soon the end of their hardship will arrive.
As far as the eye can see, desperados line the side of the road, women, now joined by men and children. It’s another day and another journey in the search for fresh water.
Port Moresby is a city where modernity has no respect for human rights. In the name of development, dreams are lost in the rubble.
Development brought broken pipes and dusty roads into most people’s lives while the young became pretenders, wannabes who have declared war on moral values and principles.
Respect and admiration for elders is no longer a norm as disobedience and gluttony have taken hold. While these young people are caught up in the euphoria of modernity, their folks are sweating and shedding tears of suffering to make ends meet. What a sad situation.
The light of hope is dimming, no more than specks of light flickering in the midst of a universe of doubt and confusion. There is no silver lining in the struggle for water. These poor people can only watch helplessly as the conmen and irresponsible flourish.
So they tramp to the common taps, slaves to the deficit of their own country. And, as they hear of destruction elsewhere, confusion reigns. They fear that soon they will join the mass exodus of displaced and hopeless city dwellers with no place to call home. They fear that their future is to drown in the same tears of sorrow.
Look at them, deprived of comfort, support and, increasingly, sanity. For years they have been on this journey in the hellhole of society in the unremitting search for water. Water, the well-spring of life and civilisation.
When dusk approaches, the hordes reappear like bees in search of the hive. Their number is more plentiful than in the morning as those who have finished the day’s work join them.
More men now in the slow march to the pipe. Like a colony of ants they scurry to the goal. Old and young battle the heat to quench their thirst, cool off or fetch water to be used for the household.
In a place abandoned by negligence and broken promises, every drop of water counts. The only time water becomes bountiful is when it rains and the settlement comes alive. It is the only time they are relieved from the daily burden of looking for water.
The journey to the spring of life seems to have no end. For some it’s a walk that they take to find God and change the direction of their future. For many it’s an intergenerational journey marking the continuing struggle.
The young kids grow up knowing they must bear some of the load. For few hours each day these kids see the suffering and hardship and they too can see no hope. Laughter and joy replaced by anguish and despair.
They have begun their thousand steps to water. And, like the generation before, they hope water is on its way and that soon the end of their hardship will arrive.
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