Bushwara Symphony - One of Sorrow and Betrayal

In the heart of Port Moresby, where the sun blazes like an angry god and the air hangs heavy with thick dust, a tragedy unfolds— the orchestra plays a symphony of heartlessness. This is the Bushwara Eviction, a tale carved in sorrow, imprinted in the tears of widows and the cries of children.

The decision was final – the Judge gave a 120-day notice to move. Bravo! Now you get to sit on your couch, with your family, warm and everything, and watch. A delight it must be.

Imagine a community clinging to life on the fringes of society. Houses filled with love and hope. Mamas saying a prayer for the looming eviction. Here, children play barefoot in the dust, their laughter echoing off corrugated iron walls. But their innocence is fragile, like blossoming Hibiscus. They know the eviction notice looms—a countdown to homelessness, a countdown to shattered dreams.

Like other evictions, what is happening at Bushwara did not just break down homes but more important to this nation, the people’s patriotism. At the cost of what? Profit? More assets?

Imagine breaking the hearts of children who have beautiful dreams and hopes to be the best for their country. The eviction will build a rebellious generation – a generation this country will not be able to control. A ticking time bomb. A child looking on as his house is trolled to the ground is a memory that never dies – a ghost that haunts the mind.

The squatters—men and women with rough hands and weary eyes—once flagged out a living here. They sold betel nuts, wove baskets, and bartered for survival. Simple people. But now, their livelihood vanish like smoke in the wind. The bulldozers don’t discriminate. They flatten homes, dreams, and dignity. The land, once their refuge, slips through their fingers like fine sand.

The government, with its ivory towers and marble halls, turns a blind eye. They shuffle and sign papers, sip coffee, and discuss “development.” But what of the development that matters—the purest pursuit, the development of hearts, of compassion? The squatters are pawns in a game they never signed up for. The government’s silence is a betrayal—a slap in the face of humanity.

As eviction day approaches, the orchestra plays its final notes. The squatters pack their memories—the faded photographs, the tattered schoolbooks, the scent of home. How long will it take to find that scent? The bulldozers rev their engines, hungry for destruction. And the government? They remain silent, their conscience buried beneath bureaucracy. The symphony ends, not with a climax, but with a sob.

And so, Bushwara weeps. Its tears stain the soil—the same soil that cradled generations, that witnessed births and deaths, that held dreams like fragile petals. The widows clutch their children, their hearts heavy with loss. The children? They look to the sky, wondering why the world can be so cruel.

As a man, I can only imagine how the Papas must feel. The man of the house, they say! You’re expected to protect and provide – but what do you do when it's out of your control and you can’t stop the wheels of the bulldozer? The Papas will not cry in front of their families, no matter how hard it is. Strong and bold like their ancestors before. The best representation of Melanesian strength.  

In this tragedy, we find our reflection—a reminder that progress should never trample compassion. Let Bushwara echo in our hearts, urging us to build a better symphony—one where the vulnerable find refuge, where children learn, and where humanity prevails over bureaucracy.