THE WAITING GENERATION

A GENERATION CAUGHT BETWEEN HOPE AND REALITY. Once upon a time, there was a country that loved its youth. At least, that was what it said whenever cameras were nearby. It called them the leaders of tomorrow. Tomorrow was a beautiful place. Everyone spoke about it. Politicians built speeches around it. Teachers mentioned it in classrooms. Parents reminded their children to prepare for it. Nobody had ever seen tomorrow. But everybody was expected to wait for it. “Be patient,” the country said. So the young people waited. They went to schools where the buildings were tired, the classrooms were overcrowded, and the teachers sometimes taught without the tools they needed. The country called this “an educational challenge.” The students called it normal, because when everyone is suffering together, suffering starts to look like a timetable. They studied hard anyway. They memorized pages they barely understood, passed examinations and collected certificates that looked impressive on paper and became decorative items at home. Then they went looking for jobs. The economy smiled. Not because it was happy. It was the kind of smile people give when they have nothing useful to say but still want to appear confident. “Experience?” employers asked. “Yes.” “How many years?” “None. I just graduated.” “Then come back when you have experience.” The young man left. He had a certificate in his hand and unemployment sitting comfortably on his shoulder. “Be patient,” the country whispered. So he was patient. His friend started a small business. The government praised entrepreneurship, especially in speeches where nobody had to provide electricity, capital or customers. Then electricity disappeared. Transportation became expensive. The price of everything climbed higher than the salaries of the people buying them. New taxes appeared like unwanted relatives at a family gathering, except these relatives came every month and never brought food. The business struggled. The government called it “economic adjustment.” The young entrepreneur called it something else, but decided to keep the word to himself. After all, complaining was not part of the national curriculum, and criticism was often treated like a criminal offence with poor timing. Then came election season. The politicians arrived in shiny cars with white smiles and promises polished brighter than their shoes. They shook hands with the young people. They called them the future. They promised jobs. Better schools. Affordable healthcare. A stronger economy. Opportunities. Hope. They promised so much that even the unemployed briefly felt employed by optimism. The youth listened. They had heard these promises before. But hope is a strange thing. Even after being disappointed repeatedly, it sometimes refuses to die. It simply changes clothes, attends another rally and accepts another free T-shirt. So they voted. The politicians won. And disappeared. Not completely. They returned occasionally on television to explain why the promises had not yet arrived. There was always a reason. The previous government. The global economy. The weather. The opposition. The moon. Almost everything was responsible except the people responsible. “Be patient,” the country said again. Years passed. The young people grew older. The leaders still called them youths, because apparently youth was not an age but a permanent waiting room. Some became doctors who could barely afford to live. Some became teachers who taught children about dreams while struggling to afford their own. Some became graduates who had mastered the art of sending applications without receiving replies, follow-ups without receiving answers and prayers without receiving confirmation. Some left the country. Those who left were called unpatriotic by people who had already secured foreign passports, foreign bank accounts or children studying abroad. Those who stayed were told to be grateful. Grateful for what, nobody explained. Perhaps for the privilege of struggling locally. The country had perfected the art of making suffering sound like a character-building exercise. Poverty became “humility.” Unemployment became “waiting for the right opportunity.” Poor infrastructure became “development in progress.” Corruption became “mismanagement.” High prices became “temporary hardship,” even when temporary began applying for citizenship. And when the people complained too loudly, someone would stand behind a microphone and say: “Our country is moving forward.” Nobody asked where. Perhaps forward meant deeper into debt. Perhaps forward meant another committee, another promise, another launch ceremony for a project that had already been launched three times. One evening, a young man sat outside his house. His degree was beside him. His unpaid bills were in front of him. His data had finished. His electricity was gone. His dreams were somewhere he could no longer locate. He looked up at the night sky. “Tomorrow,” he whispered. The country heard him. “Be patient,” it replied. For the first time, he laughed. Not because anything was funny. But because he had finally understood. Perhaps tomorrow had never been a place. Perhaps tomorrow was simply a word the country had invented to keep its young people from asking what was wrong with today. It was a useful word. It could be printed on banners, repeated during campaigns and used whenever someone asked for accountability. And suddenly, the question changed. It was no longer: “When will our tomorrow come?” It became: “How long can a country keep asking its future to wait?”

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