No Food, No Water, Our Lives Are in Danger – Bawku Security Personnel Cry Over Poor Living Conditions
Deployed officers reveal unsafe living conditions, lack of basic supplies, and fear of attacks as political interference worsens the Bawku conflict
- Security personnel lack access to consistent food, water, and safe shelter
- Officers fear for their lives as locals view them as enemies
- Political interference and unclear orders hinder peace efforts
On a quiet Friday morning, the Ghana Se Sen show on Lawson TV/Radio became the unexpected platform for a harrowing revelation.
Security personnel stationed in Bawku, deployed to restore peace amid the conflict that has raged for decades, broke their silence. With trembling voices and heavy hearts, they painted a painful picture of fear, frustration, and forgotten service.
These men and women, sent under orders “from above,” spoke not as warriors, but as weary souls caught in a battle far deeper than bullets and barricades.
They revealed how the barracks in Binduri — meant to be their sanctuary — sit far from where they must cook. Even their food isn’t local. It comes from regional sources, arriving in scattered batches, delayed and unreliable, like hope in a land scarred by war.
Their water according to them is not drawn from the earth they defend, but imported — a reminder that even their most basic needs are alien to the terrain.
They spoke of long, treacherous distances — from their camp to conflict zones — comparing it to the journey from Ahowdwo to Mampong, stretching to Ejura. And yet, even these hardships pale in comparison to the emotional burden they carry. In Bawku, being seen in uniform is like being marked for death. “If the residents see you as a military officer, you are their enemy,” one lamented.
Their mission is tangled in politics. They claim the conflict, once a matter of security, has now been tainted by political interference, making their job nearly impossible.
“Our leaders are trying for us, but it’s not fruitful,” they admitted, acknowledging the efforts of their commanders, yet feeling the futility seep into every day.
Most chillingly, they described the generational nature of the conflict. Children — mere boys — wielding guns. “If you see children shooting, you will be shocked,” they whispered. Yet, they cannot retaliate. They are bound by orders not to shoot civilians, even if fired upon. “We can stop the fight simply,” one stated, “but due to orders from above, we just watch.”
They have seized weapons — machine guns among them — but the arms always return, hidden, replaced, reinforced. Some say drones have been flown over attack sites to reward killers with money. “It is dangerous,” they warned, “we live with death every second.”
Despite the chaos, their loyalty remains — not just to command, but to peace. But their pleas are raw: “Speak some for us. This situation is getting out of hand.”
These are not just uniformed personnel. They are fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters — standing in the crossfire of a war they did not start, governed by rules they cannot question, and burdened by silence they can no longer keep.
And now, they ask for one thing — not sympathy, but understanding. Because beyond every headline, beyond every drone, beyond every distant decision, is a soldier with a heartbeat, trying to make it home.
