THE SCENE ALONG the banks of the Makona River in Lofa County is not simply a border dispute—it is a slow-motion humanitarian crisis fueled by a lack of effective communication that has become as damaging as any armed incursion. While President Joseph Nyuma Boakai returns from Conakry with communiqués and promises of diplomacy, several residents of Foya District are already homeless, watching armed soldiers occupy land they have farmed for generations.
SURPRISINGLY, THEIR QUESTION is simple: whose river is this? And why will no one give them a straight answer? In one of its press releases regarding the matter, the Executive Mansion noted that Liberians are “claiming” the disputed land. Does this imply that even the government does not know who owns the area?
For weeks, Guinean soldiers have crossed the Makona, raised their flag, and claimed territory Liberians have long understood to be shared.
RESIDENTS HAVE FLED. Children are not in school. Yet the government’s response, while diplomatically busy, has been conspicuously quiet on the one question that underpins every other: who owns the river? In the absence of clarity, fear multiplies. And without clarity, even the most peaceful citizen will see a foreign soldier on their land as an invasion. Herein lies the crux of the matter. If Liberian border residents were officially informed that the Makona River—by treaty or long-standing agreement—belongs to Guinea, they would have no choice but to accept that reality, however painful.
THEY WOULD KNOW that Guinean soldiers operating in those waters are not encroaching but patrolling. They would adjust their lives, their farming, their expectations accordingly. But that is not the message they have received. For generations, the understanding along the border has been simple and intuitive: the river divides; each side belongs to its respective country. In the absence of any authoritative, publicly disseminated clarification from Monrovia, residents are left to rely on that inherited knowledge. And so when Guinean troops arrive with arms and flags, they do not see a legitimate presence. They see an invasion. They see their land being taken.
THAT PERCEPTION IS not paranoia—it is the natural conclusion of a government that has failed to communicate. The 1907 Franco-Liberian Convention and its 1911 refinement may indeed provide a legal basis for Guinea’s interpretation. Or perhaps the international watercourse principles and the customary practice of the thalweg—the middle of the river as the boundary—favor Liberia’s traditional view. But until the government tells its citizens, plainly and unequivocally, what the official position is, residents will continue to interpret the presence of Guinean soldiers through the lens of what they have always known: the land is ours, and they are on it.
THIS IS NOT just an communication failure. It is a security failure. When citizens believe their territory is being occupied, they will resist, flee, or demand military action. That is precisely the combustible situation now simmering along the Makona. President Boakai rightly notes that “it is easy to fight, break down, and destroy.” But it is also easy for a government, through silence, to create the conditions where fighting becomes the only perceived option.
HOUSE SPEAKER RICHARD N. Koon and his delegation have urged calm, and their engagement is commendable. But telling frightened families that “no armed conflict exists” while soldiers with guns occupy their farms is to misunderstand the nature of fear. For a mother who has fled her home, the distinction between a tense occupation and open conflict matters little. What matters is whether her government has told her the truth about whose land she stands on.
THE 12-POINT ROADMAP agreed in Conakry is a necessary start. But roadmaps mean nothing if the people they are meant to protect do not know the destination. The Boakai administration must immediately undertake a public information campaign in the border communities—and across the nation—clarifying the legal status of the Makona River. If Liberia recognizes Guinea’s sovereignty over the waterway, say so plainly. If the government maintains that the river is a shared boundary, say that too—and explain how it will be defended. What is unacceptable is leaving citizens in a fog of ambiguity while soldiers move through their villages.
Lofa COUNTY SUPERINTENDENT J. Lavelah Massaquoi has laid bare the stakes: “Nobody is going to make farm this year. No school will be there.” That is not the language of a distant diplomatic squabble. It is the language of a community being unmade. Hunger, displacement, and the erosion of trust are the real weapons at play here. And they are being wielded not only by Guinean troops, but by the government’s own silence.
LIBERIANS HAVE EARNED their peace through decades of sacrifice. Protecting that peace requires more than summits and statements. It requires the basic democratic contract between a government and its people: honest communication. Tell the citizens of Foya what land is theirs. Tell them what land is not. Only then can they know whether the soldiers on the river are neighbors or invaders. Only then can they decide whether to stay or flee.
