The decision to reopen the Porgera gold mine without first addressing the fundamental social and humanitarian obligations owed to the local communities is not only morally indefensible—it is a strategic miscalculation that risks fuelling long-term instability in one of Papua New Guinea’s most volatile regions.
Porgera is no stranger to conflict. The mine, once among the country’s most lucrative, has long operated amid a complex web of grievances—land ownership disputes, environmental degradation, militarised law enforcement, and a persistently unfulfilled promise of development for the people who inhabit its valleys. The current push to fast-track operations, while neglecting relocation and the Community Development Agreement (CDA), is a repetition of past failures.
At the heart of the matter lies the social contract—the implicit and explicit agreement between the state, the operator, and the local communities. The CDA is not a bureaucratic formality; it is the legal and ethical foundation upon which resource extraction in fragile communities must be built. Circumventing this process not only betrays landowners’ rights but delegitimises the entire governance framework intended to underpin Papua New Guinea’s resource sector.
The urgency to unlock the economic potential of Porgera is understandable, especially in a fiscal climate strained by global commodity volatility, budget deficits, and rising public debt. Yet, economic expediency cannot justify bypassing legally mandated social obligations. Failure to relocate communities living within the mine’s operational zone—many of whom rely on illegal mining as their sole livelihood—amounts to willful negligence.
Porgera’s geography compounds the issue. Its rugged terrain, poor soil, and subzero climate make subsistence farming virtually impossible. The community has become economically dependent on the mine without being structurally integrated into its benefits. That dependency, without inclusion, is the root cause of the lawlessness currently engulfing the valley.
Security operations will not offer a sustainable solution. Deploying troops or police to quell unrest may pacify symptoms temporarily, but it does nothing to resolve the core issue: people feel excluded, displaced, and disenfranchised. Without resettlement, without compensation, and without voice, tensions will erupt again—only this time, possibly with deadlier consequences.
The Porgera case raises uncomfortable questions about governance, state legitimacy, and the role of extractive industries in postcolonial states. Are we building a model of resource nationalism that truly benefits our people, or are we reinforcing the architecture of exploitation?
The government must meet its fiduciary responsibility to its citizens. That means completing the CDA, ensuring a dignified and fair relocation of communities, and embedding landowner participation in the decision-making process. Anything less risks triggering a humanitarian and security crisis that could jeopardise not just the mine, but the national image of Papua New Guinea as a credible investment destination.
This is not merely about Porgera. It is about setting a precedent. Do we, as a nation, prioritise the consent and welfare of our people—or do we mortgage their future for short-term economic gain?
Porgera has the potential to be a beacon of inclusive development. But without first fulfilling the obligations to those whose land we seek to exploit, it will remain a symbol of broken promises.