𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐀 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓

𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝

I come from the upper highlands of Papua New Guinea. A place where frost blankets the land and the air bites cold. It’s a place of breathtaking beauty but also relentless pain. Here, the mountains echo with cries of sorrow more often than songs of joy.

In my homeland, conflict is constant. Tribal wars ignite like wildfires. People fight over land, pigs, politics and old grudges. When the fighting starts, it’s merciless. Homes burn. Gardens are destroyed. Families flee, leaving behind everything they’ve ever known. They hide in the forests and foreign homes, cold and hungry, waiting for peace that never seems to come.

People die. Too many; too often. It’s not just the wars that take them. Accidents happen on narrow, winding roads. Landslides bury entire villages in the blink of an eye. Frost kills gardens and leave families with nothing to eat. The land that should nurture us seems to conspire against us.

There was a time when death was rare here. Elders would pass away peacefully, surrounded by family. But now, it feels like death has taken root in the soil. It grows and spreads, claiming more lives with every passing year. Mass deaths are now the norm. Funerals follow funerals. Graves multiply.

I watch this from the sidelines. I see the toll it takes on my people. Children grow up without parents. Mothers bury their sons. Fathers lose everything they’ve worked for. The grief is endless. The tears never stop. They fall like the rain, and it soaks the earth that’s already heavy with sorrow.

On social media, people talk about us. They share images of burned houses and weeping mothers. They write captions filled with pity or scorn. In office corridors, I hear the whispers. “Have you heard what’s happening up there?” they say. In marketplaces, the chatter is the same. Our tragedy has become their gossip.

Sometimes, I feel ashamed. I wish I could hide. I wish I could disappear. If there was a portal to another world, I would step through it without looking back. But no portal exists. And even if it did, I know I couldn’t leave. This place is my home. These people are my people.

I love them despite the pain. Despite the tears. Despite the heartbreak. I love the way they laugh through their struggles. I love the way they share what little they have. I love the way they rebuild after every disaster, even when hope seems lost.

But loving them doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t stop the pain. It doesn’t bring back the dead. Every day, I wake up to news of another tragedy. Another life lost. Another family broken. The cycle never ends. It feels like we’re cursed.

Yet, there are moments of tenacity amidst the despair. I see mothers comforting their children with stories of better days; doesn’t matter if the schools have been burnt down. I see men planting new gardens in the ashes of old ones. I see children playing, their laughter defying the darkness around them. These moments are brief, but they’re powerful. They remind me that all is not lost.

Still, the weight of it all is overwhelming. Sometimes, I sit alone and cry. The tears come without warning. They’re constant, just like the pain. They fall for the lives lost; for the futures stolen; for the dreams shattered. They fall for the people I love and the place I call home.

I wonder if things will ever change; if the wars will end; if the land will stop betraying us; if the people will finally find peace. I wonder if our story will ever be one of hope instead of despair. These questions haunt me. They linger in my mind unanswered.

But even in the darkest moments, a small part of me holds on to hope. It’s fragile, like a flickering candle in a storm. But it’s there. It’s the hope that someday, the tears will stop. That someday, my people will know peace. That someday, we’ll no longer be defined by our pain.

Until that day comes, I will keep loving my people. I will keep praying for them. I will keep telling our story, no matter how painful it is. Because our story matters. Our pain matters. Our tears matter.

This is my place. These are my people. And this is our truth. ENGA FOREVER IN MY HEART!

#PaperTrails #TenTwentyFive #UnfoldingScroll #TheWanderingQuill

Every Step Forward Brings A New Perspective

Whispers to the World...

The anthology I worked on for my Creative Writing major project had to include five poems, two short stories, a play, and Part I of my dad’s autobiography. Creative Writing was one of three electives I took from the School of Social Science and Humanities (SHSS) at the University of Papua New Guinea (UPNG). It was the second semester of 2017, during my final year of studies.

I presented my poems to my lecturer for corrections. Earlier, she had asked us to bring our first drafts for her guidance. All my poems seemed beautiful to me, filling me with excitement and pride. The rhythm, the flow; they all sounded exceptional. But after glancing through them just once, my lecturer told me I had gone off-track.

Off-track? How? Her comment disoriented me. I was confident my poems were good; great, even. I had expected uplifting compliments, at least some encouraging words to motivate me as I completed the rest of the anthology. Instead, her critique left me feeling deflated.

To me, those poems were my best work. To her, they weren’t. She said I needed to replace all of them with better ones and advised me to “come down to my level and write like a student.”

Come down to my level? But I was a student. What other level could I possibly have been on? Did she mean I had written like an expert? Her words were confusing. I had hoped for clear, constructive feedback, but her critique was vague and unexpected. Yet, in an odd way, her comment also made me feel a bit proud.

I started to think, “Maybe she meant I did it so well it didn’t seem like student work. Maybe my poems were on par with a professional poet’s.” I wasn’t explicitly told why my poems didn’t belong in the anthology, so I began to assume my work was too advanced for my peers. I even, embarrassingly, looked down on other students, thinking I had outdone them; or even reached a lecturer’s level.

But now, looking back at those same poems, my feelings have completely changed. They’re riddled with errors. The diction sways inconsistently within each stanza, making it hard to identify a clear style or voice. The lines feel forced to serve the meter, which only creates a weak and thin rhythm. The themes are shallow, sacrificed for the sake of rhyme. Worse, the central ideas are muddled by careless collections of thoughts, further disrupting the structure.

My lecturer never pointed out these specific flaws at the time, and for that, I felt she missed an opportunity to help me grow. But the bigger issue was my arrogance; I had deluded myself into thinking I was better than my peers or even on par with the lecturers. Shameful, really.

From this perspective, the view is entirely different. But there’s something valuable in that. Those poems reflect how I viewed poetry back then. My understanding of poetry has since evolved, and the way I see my past work now tells me that growth happens with every step forward. When you're stationed at one place the view is the same. But IF YOU DESIRE A NEW VIEW, NEVER STOP MOVING FORWARD.

The Roar of Memories on Poreporena Freeway

As a first timer in POM, I didn't know a lot of places. I had no where else to go. It was around early Feb.in 2014. I got registered at school (UPNG) already, but before classes began I stayed at my Aunt’s place for a few more days. 

 I was so anxious that I would see the big buildings, nice cars, the famous Ela Beach and the sea and of course the whole city. I have heard a lot of nice stuffs about POM that got me restless even the night before I traveled.  Sadly however, my aunt and my uncle were both working. 

 We would go out in the afternoon a few times, but only for better reasons; like to buy groceries. They were both elderly and respectable and would focus more on better things than to go out for fun and see places. Since I was new, I locked myself up; water plants, watched a lot of TV programs, eat and sleep and stayed home.  

 In the middle of one of this big-yawn days, I had a call coming in on my phone. It was from a new number. I never had a lot of people’s contacts or neither did many have mine. I didn’t expect a lot of calls those days. Out of curiosity I quickly tapped on the answer key to know who it was. 

 As I placed the phone closed to my right ear, the first word came through was “Kami (brother).” It was clearly from a guy, but the voice was quite unrecognizable. I couldn't quickly tell who it was. I asked if it was someone I knew, or was a relative? 

 He (the person called) didn’t give me a positive response yet, not as quickly as I wanted to hear. He tried to bring me back to a point where he got my contact digits. He asked if I remembered us being together in my place in 2013 Christmas? And finally he went on and asked “Kami, Namb Willie Kaimining Andak Hul Kandep Kareyaban Dok Masyilyip Daah?”

 This made me remember everything at once and of course knew who was on the phone too. I deeply apologized for not picking up his voice quickly. I felt so down. Realizing it was actually him making the effort to call made me so humble. 

 Frankly, I couldn’t really believe that he called. He's not the kind of person you would want for him to call while you wait. He was a man of respectable traits. He said he was calling to find out if I was free so he could take me out to go around and see places. Following captures a few pieces of our conversation that day that lingers fresh as if it went down just yesterday; number of years gone never erase a good memory.

    Him: Kami, you free or doing something?

    Me: Kami, mi slip kirap lo house tasol ya.

    Him: Aiyooo, Kaimi Nabaen Yarae eret. Wanpla kisim you raun lo city finish too or nogat?

    Me: Kaimi nogat ya. Bel sigirap stret lo go tasol hard ya. Mi no save lo ples too na stap tasol lo house .   

    Him: Now yet you stap lo where? 

    Me: Me stap lo wanpla ples ol kolim Korobosea, but mi no klia tumas how lo givim details. Em mas 

            sampla ap beksait lo bikpla hausik ating. 

   Him: Okay my brother, now worries. I know where that is. Come out to somewhere I can see you.

 ....anyway, to cut it all short he came in a gray car (Toyota Camry) and picked me up. Now I know it was 2mile road that we went down through Koki and Badili to downtown. He showed me where Koki Market was, the famous Ela Beach and downtown and its pretty tall buildings. We kept moving and drove passed Konedobu to Hola through poreporena freeway. 

 As we took on the free way, the car picked up on its speed so strangely. There were no gear shifts. I wondered how that was possible. To a village guy who just moved in to Port Moresby, this was thoroughly an unusual thing happened. I used to think every car, big or small, has the same transmission sets (first to fifth). 

I sat nearside him and looked at his lags, his harms and his face back and forth and again.  He barely touched the gear. His both hands were on the steering wheel and eyes focused on the road. The roaring engine on the mountain affirmed that one of his legs was on the accelerator crushing it. But I was still confused how! I was on board a few times when my aunt was driving, but clearly I never noticed this one.

"Kami, how is that possible; you're kind of putting me through a lot of questions" I asked. I further asked if he could tell me why the car just gassed-up without having the gears shifted.  He just laughed and laughed again. He finally looked at me and said "Kaim, Welcome to Port Moresby."

Late Captain Sanol Kyakagen was a great young man of super leadership qualities. He had a lot of friends; some of whom were of very low standards, but he never cared. He would treat everyone in a way where those around him feels equally accepted. In his stunning charm, you would share your thoughts, crack jokes and laugh out loud freely. He was surely on his way up to flying above the horizons. So sadly however; he went to his eternal sleep - the most painful thing ever happened that left everyone whom he loved & treasured in so much pain and heartbroken.

Death is indeed a painful intruder. It only leaves us brokenhearted in great agony. A lot of people say time heals and yes it does. But what it doesn't are the  memories created; they linger forever. Late Captain S. Kyakagen had a lot of memories with his family members and and friends on which as they ponder they shed tears.  

To me, I can't easily forget that fine day when he lit up the whole world.  I can't forget the expression when he said "Kaim, Welcome to Port Moresby." He was the first guy who showed me that automatic transmission cars exist. And of course he was the first to show me many parts of Port Moresby too.

Every time I see an automatic transmission car or when someone talks about it, or when I travel down or up the poreporena freeway that endless simper on his face gets played in my mind over and over again. Our best moment was about 7 years ago, but it still lingers fresh and it ever will like it happened only yesterday. Not only this in me, but I hope you have left thousands of memories in the hearts of many. 

KAMI NABAEN AMEH, REST EASY IN ETERNAL PEACE  😭 😭💔💔

The Fragility of Heights

Life is a cycle of highs and lows. Nothing lasts forever. Do not let success or wealth make you arrogant. Stay humble and treat others with kindness. True happiness comes from contentment and gratitude, not from things that fade away.

When They Don’t Understand You, Show Them!

When you ask them to understand, they don’t. When you ask them to feel your pain, they can’t. When you share your struggles, they weigh theirs heavier than yours. Words don’t always reach them. The impact is shallow. But put them in your shoes—let them walk your path, even for a moment. Let them feel what you feel. Let them see what you see. Only then will their eyes open. Only then will they truly understand.

I had told him several times that I didn’t have an extra pair. He didn’t seem to care. I even explained that my old shoes were almost two years old and falling apart. Still, he insisted. This time, I didn’t bother replying. What else was there to say? I decided I’d deal with it when I got home.

When I arrived, I sat down on a wooden bench, pulled off my shoes, and slid them over to him. “There you go, bro. Your shoes.”

He picked them up, turning them over and over in his hands. He inspected the front, the back, the inside, and the soles. His silence said it all. Those shoes were beaten up. Wrinkled leather, flimsy support, and the kind of wear and tear that screamed, Please retire me.

His face changed. Frustration mixed with disappointment. It was hard to miss. Everyone in the house could see it. He had expected something else. He thought I’d bring him a new pair from Port Moresby. In his mind, city life meant flashy cars, shiny shoes, and an easy, dreamlike existence. What he didn’t know was how hard we hustle every day just to keep our heads above water.

The next morning, I asked my mom for her slippers. I had nothing to wear. My shoes were still sitting in the house, but I couldn’t bring myself to put them back on. I thought maybe my brother had forgotten them. I figured he’d come back for them at some point.

He didn’t.

He came around the house a few times after that, but the shoes stayed untouched. Eventually, I put them back on and returned to Port Moresby with them.

Here’s the truth. 
Graduating with a degree doesn’t mean a good job is waiting for you. Getting a job doesn’t mean you’re earning enough to live comfortably. People back home don’t understand that. They’ll ask for things you can’t afford to give. They’ll expect more than you can offer.

Explaining doesn’t help. I’ve tried. Sometimes, the best way to teach them is to let them see for themselves.

REMEMBER THIS:

• You’re not broke just because someone says you are.
• You’re not a bad person just because you don’t meet others’ expectations.
• It’s okay to make decisions that upset people, even the ones you care about.

Sometimes, the right thing to do isn’t the easy thing. But it’s still the right thing.

GOD ANSWERED, When Death Called

On Thursday, the 4th of February 2021, I woke up to the sterile walls of the Emergency Ward at Port Moresby General Hospital. It was a week before my birthday. But that same day could’ve been my deathday. Exactly seven days apart. Coincidence? Maybe. Miracle? Definitely.

The memories from that time still creep into my thoughts. It’s chilling to imagine how close I came to the other side. Death isn’t some mysterious idea anymore. It’s real. Too real. It’s that dark, cold, and unwelcoming place no one wants to visit. I think of the mortuary at Port Moresby General. The corpses lying there in lifeless silence. The frosty air. The stench of finality. Would anyone dare to “try it out”? Of course not. But one day, we all end up there. For me, that day wasn’t it.

That night; Thursday, around 8:00 p.m.; I felt my body shutting down. It started with a numbness that spread like wildfire. My arms, my legs, everything froze. My jaws clenched so tightly I thought they’d snap. My tongue started pulling back into my windpipe, and I couldn’t stop it. I could feel death closing in. It was no longer just a word. It was a presence, hovering so close I could feel it in my bones.

But God; the God of all-knowing, the Lord of all possibilities; He stood in death’s way. He said, “Not today.”

Seven days later, on my birthday, I sat at my desk scrolling through LinkedIn. Notifications flooded my screen. Over forty people had sent me birthday wishes. Happy Birthday, they said. Each message hit differently. All I could think was, If I’d died last week, today wouldn’t be a celebration. It’d be a funeral.

I couldn’t shake the thought. What if I had gone? What would my friends say? My family? My connections? Being young, fresh out of university, and yet to live the life I’d dreamed of, it seemed unfair. But life isn’t fair, and death doesn’t discriminate. Good health, plans, ambitions; it doesn’t matter. Death comes to us all, whether we’re ready or not.

In those moments, as death loomed, everything I once valued seemed meaningless. The things I worked so hard for, the dreams I held onto; none of it mattered. It was humbling. It was terrifying. And it was a wake-up call.

Today, I’m thankful. Thankful that I didn’t die. Thankful for the lesson I learned in the most painful way. Having a near-death experience changed me. It gave me a new perspective. A new hope. A renewed strength to live differently.

God didn’t want me to be the same person turning another year older. He wanted me to be someone changed, someone who’d seen a glimpse of death and learned to lean on Him completely. Yes, aging means we’re one year closer to the end. But it also means one more year to live with purpose.

I’m grateful to celebrate another birthday. But what I’m most grateful for is this: TO STILL HAVE THE LORD OF HOSTS AS MY GOD! 

SCARS WITHIN ARE ROADMAPS TO OUR SUNSHINE!

FAILURE COMES ONLY TO THE PEOPLE WHO BELIEVE WHEN OTHERS SAY 'YOU WILL FAIL.'

Where flowers bloom, so does hope. They radiate smiles, spreading joy with their fragrance. Even a single rose can attract a thousand bees, tirelessly weaving the delicate harmony of nature. And yet, sometimes, the hands that hold these roses are trapped within walls, shielded by impenetrable stockades. For the conceited heart that owns the garden, beauty becomes a private pride, a treasure locked away. The world whispers, “This beauty is your own creation.”

I watched the mighty birds soar across open skies. Their offspring; like roses blooming in concrete gardens; were both radiant and lonely. Laughter was the music of their souls, a fleeting melody in a silent room. In my teenage years, I was like an orphan dwelling in chaos. Hopes felt like fragile seeds buried in barren soil. Surrounded by faceless crowds, I wandered a sea of despair. Finding solid ground seemed impossible, and the warmth of sunshine felt as distant as a thousand days' journey.

Going to school was a monotonous march, like flogging a dead horse. I crawled through life like a snail, weighed down by the burden of inadequacy. I envied the light that others carried, the glow that seemed so unreachable. Once, I lived in a world that felt orderly and bright, where I watched people flourish in their backyards. But everything changed when the light of my moon dimmed. The brokenness of my past and the veils of my uncertain future filled me with dread. Though I appreciated a select few, most people offered no hand to guide me through the darkness. My life felt like a bird with broken wings, unable to soar.

Struggling against the relentless waves of life was never easy. The harsh words of my own relatives cut like daggers, leaving wounds that lingered long after. The world around me; perched on hilltops of judgment; looked down coldly. My heart swelled with oceans of tears, carrying the weight of their disbelief. Neighbors saw no future in me, convinced my climb would lead to nothing. They pointed to the past, to failures they had witnessed, dismissing any attempt to rise as futile.

But now, I look back with gratitude. The scars etched in my heart have become the roadmaps to my soul, guiding me toward light and understanding. I once believed life was a race, but it’s not. Life is a battle; not one where we defeat others, but one where we triumph over the perceptions that tether us. It is a fight to redefine who we are, to claim the beauty and strength that are uniquely ours.

LIVE YOUR LIFE! Do not race against others; the world you build is your own creation. Life rewards us not with what we want but with what we truly deserve. Embrace your scars, for they lead you to your sunshine.