Last year, in October, I embarked on a month-long trip to the upper highlands of Papua New Guinea, specifically covering Hela, Southern Highlands, and Enga, with transit through Mt. Hagen for work-related purposes. This was my third visit to the Highlands, my second was in 2020 when I travelled to Tari alone from POM, and my first was in November 2017 when I travelled by bus from Eriku in Lae, through Eastern Highlands, Simbu, and Jiwaka before reaching Mt. Hagen. From these visits, I observed significant changes, particularly in infrastructure—improved road networks, and new buildings. However, my recent experience underscored a troubling reality: the ongoing tribal conflicts that continue to disrupt business continuity and societal norms.
During my second journey to Hela Province, the Upper Highlands seemed to be on a path of progress. The development of better roads facilitated travel and trade, and there was optimism in the air. Eight years later, while there were some signs of development, the region remains entrenched in deep-seated issues that hinder its progress. Tribal conflicts, the illegal arms trade, and public safety concerns have overshadowed any advances.
The reality I faced was far from what I had envisioned. While there were visible developments, they were starkly contrasted by the violence and instability around me. On this trip, I encountered gunmen at roadblocks, witnessed ongoing fights and chaos in the heart of towns, and observed people openly carrying weapons like sharp Tramontina knives in public spaces. Even attempts to bring peace, with people marching around town, were often followed by renewed violence.
These persistent tribal conflicts disrupt daily life, creating an environment of fear and uncertainty. Clashes between rival groups are often fueled by longstanding grievances and competition for resources like land, money, women, pigs, and other valuable assets. The proliferation of illegal firearms exacerbates these tensions, leading to escalated violence that makes resolution increasingly difficult. Public safety is an ever-growing concern, with roadblocks and the presence of armed individuals becoming commonplace. This not only jeopardises the safety of residents but also deters potential investors and disrupts business operations.
Despite the presence of police, their ability to maintain peace is still far from reach. From observations and conversations with the locals, even with a police presence, violence continues unabated, with fatalities occurring daily. Women, children, and other vulnerable groups bear the brunt of this violence, suffering from the devastating impacts of conflict.
The combination of violence and instability creates an environment where business investment is discouraged, and public services remain underdeveloped. Many people, unable to secure a future in their home regions, have migrated to urban centers like Port Moresby, Lae, Mt. Hagen and other coastal towns in search of better opportunities. This migration leads to overcrowding in cities and brings the tribal tensions of the Highlands into new environments, perpetuating a cycle of conflict.
A Personal Reflection
As I sat one cold night in Mendi town, sipping a cup of locally blended tea, I heard gunshots echoing around me. It reminded me of Augustine Emil’s song “Bulut”, particularly the line: “Pait tasol i bagarapim ples.” I was deeply troubled.
The next morning, I asked my friends about the strange popping sounds I had heard the night before—sounds I had initially mistaken for bamboos being burned, as is common in my village when we make gardens. They told me, “No yah, that was gunfire. Two warring tribes were fighting.”
I was shocked—but what could I do? For my safety, I had to leave Mendi. I travelled straight to Mt. Hagen, and while en route, my flight was arranged. I caught the next available plane back to Port Moresby.
The beauty of the Highlands continued to mesmerise my thoughts as I made my way down to Hagen. The green landscape of Jiwaka and Tambul-Nebilyer, the refreshing waters of Wara Yalo, the grandeur of Mt. Giluwe, and the fertile lands of the Waghi Valley—all of these images helped me momentarily forget the trauma I had just experienced. The majestic landscapes, the serenity of the valleys, and the promise of growth through agriculture and natural beauty brought me a sense of peace. For a fleeting moment, the echoes of gunfire and the fear that had gripped my mind faded away.
Sitting on my flight back that evening, I was still frozen in thought, reflecting on the highlands I had just left. The raw beauty of the land—the cool mountain air, the vibrant gardens, and the laughter of children—played out in my mind like a slow, haunting film. But alongside these peaceful memories, the sounds of gunfire, the fear in people’s eyes, and the visible tension in towns once filled with life, now divided by tribal conflict, also lingered.
My thoughts drifted to the chilling coldness of Mt. Ialibu, the emotional rhythm of the Onei’ll Highway, the chilling waters of Wara Yalo, and the peaceful calm of Ialibu station. I remembered the majestic beauty of Mt. Giluwe, the breathtaking vast valleys of Tambul-Nebilyer, overflowing with carrots, potatoes, and broccoli. I thought of the serene Ambua Falls filled with bird songs, the breathtaking sunrise at Nenenge Lodge in Tari, and the lonely, quiet nights at Mt. Giluwe Eco Lodge, with wara Mendi cutting through heart of Mendi town.
Then there were the fresh pineapples from Nebilyer Green Valley, the colourful flowers, and the lush coffee and tea gardens lining the Waghi Valley. Despite all this natural beauty, conflict loomed in the background like a shadow.
I thought of how a land so rich in culture, nature, and potential could also be a place of such conflict. How can a people known for hospitality and strength be caught in a cycle of violence and fear? Why must peace remain elusive for communities that deserve safety, opportunity, and growth?
In all the hardship I witnessed, I also saw hope. In the resilience of mothers, the dreams of young children, and the tireless efforts of local peacebuilders, there is still a future worth fighting for. But how long can hope survive when it is overshadowed by gunfire and continuous tribal fights? What more must be done before we choose lasting peace over pride, and unity over division?
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