The treatment of the Goilala people in Port Moresby is not a misunderstanding

The treatment of the Goilala people in Port Moresby is not a misunderstanding, not an accident, and not an isolated social problem—it is a direct consequence of a political and governance system that has failed to deliver development, justice, and inclusion. It exposes an uncomfortable truth about Papua New Guinea: we have become a state that is quicker to blame its vulnerable citizens than to confront its own failures.

Goilala people did not migrate to Port Moresby because they wanted conflict or crime. They came because their district was neglected—roads were not built, services were not sustained, economic opportunities were not created, and hope was not delivered. Like many Papua New Guineans, they moved to the capital in search of survival and dignity. Yet, instead of recognising this as a failure of policy and leadership, the state has chosen to criminalise their presence in the city.

The Goilala people are not merely residents of Port Moresby today—they are contributors to nation-building. Their forefathers played a vital role in the very creation and growth of Port Moresby, helping to build the city’s infrastructure, communities, and economy. Today, their descendants continue to contribute through work in markets, construction, small businesses, security, transport, churches, and community initiatives, supporting families in rural districts and sustaining urban life. To label them as criminals or outsiders is not only false—it is a betrayal of their legacy and their ongoing contribution to the nation.

Yet, in Port Moresby, Goilala communities are too often treated as suspects rather than citizens. Settlements are targeted, homes are destroyed, families are displaced, youths are profiled, and women in markets are harassed—not because they are criminals, but because they belong to a group that has been politically labelled as a problem. This is not law and order; it is collective punishment. It is not justice; it is discrimination. And it is not leadership; it is the avoidance of responsibility.

The role of the police in this context raises serious questions about professionalism and legitimacy. A police force that resorts to intimidation, ethnic profiling, and collective punishment is not demonstrating strength—it is revealing weakness. Such conduct is unbecoming of a national law enforcement institution and unworthy of a democratic state. The duty of the police is to protect citizens, not to terrorise them; to enforce the law, not to undermine it.

The danger of this approach is not only moral but political. When a state normalises ethnic scapegoating, it plants the seeds of division and instability. When people lose trust in the law, they stop believing in the state. When communities feel hunted rather than protected, they become alienated, resentful, and vulnerable to violence and manipulation. No nation can endure when its own citizens feel like enemies of the state.

The truth is uncomfortable but unavoidable: the Goilala people are not the problem. The problem is a governance model that neglects rural districts, mismanages urban growth, criminalises poverty, and uses force to mask policy failure. Crime must be confronted, but crime cannot be defeated by targeting communities instead of causes. Law and order cannot be built on fear; it must be built on justice, opportunity, and equality.

Papua New Guinea now faces a defining choice. We can continue to blame marginalised communities and deepen division, or we can confront the structural failures that created this crisis and rebuild a system that delivers development in the districts, inclusion in the cities, and fairness in the enforcement of law. History will not judge us by how harshly we treated the vulnerable, but by whether we had the courage to admit that the Goilala experience is not a threat to the nation—it is a warning that the nation must reform, or it will fracture under the weight of its own injustice.