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News_Naija

Turning Promises Into Protection: The Niger Deltas Moment Of Truth

Nigeria is on the cusp of a regulatory milestone with the proposed Midstream and Downstream Petroleum Safety and Environmental Regulations (MDPSER) 2025—a draft legislation developed by the Nigerian Midstream and Downstream Petroleum Regulatory Authority (NMDPRA). While the bill aims to strengthen environmental and safety standards across the petroleum sector, it also presents something more significant: a rare opportunity to reset the government’s relationship with host communities in the Niger Delta. The Niger Delta has long carried the burden of oil production in Nigeria. For decades, communities have watched their rivers turn black, their soil lose its fertility, and their livelihoods collapse. Promises have been made—about safety, accountability, cleanups, and compensation—but the gap between legislation and lived experience has remained wide. Today, millions of people in oil-producing communities still suffer from the consequences of weak environmental enforcement. MDPSER 2025 must not become another well-meaning but ineffective piece of legislation. Instead, it must be bold, enforceable, and community-focused. Consider the story of Mama Preye, a fisherwoman in a coastal village in Bayelsa. She once relied on daily catches from the creek to feed her family. Now, after paddling long distances, she returns home empty-handed. Pollution from oil operations has choked the aquatic life out of her environment. Her story is not unique—it represents countless others across the Delta. Yet, nowhere in the current MDPSER draft is there an explicit recognition of people like her. A simple declaration in the bill affirming the protection of community health, livelihoods, and environmental rights would signal a crucial shift—from prioritising corporate activity relative to human dignity. Illegal refining sites are another unaddressed reality. These unregulated operations release toxins into the air and water. Ignoring them does not make them disappear. MDPSER must require a comprehensive map of all petroleum facilities, including illegal ones, to be made publicly accessible. Communities should be able to know what facilities are near them and what risks they pose. Moreover, when disasters occur, communities are often left in the dark. Spills and leaks happen with no warning, no explanation, and no swift response. To change this, the MDPSER should mandate that companies share safety documentation within seven days of any incident and allow a 30-day window for community input. And to be truly effective, these notices must be communicated in local languages that people understand. The current draft also fails to make community participation in emergency drills mandatory. Yet, it is the locals—not external consultants—who know where children play, where elders gather, and where contamination could spread. Making community involvement a requirement would enhance preparedness and build trust between operators and residents. Hazardous waste management is another glaring concern. The principle of “cradle to grave” responsibility is mentioned, but in practice, there is no visible tracking. Communities continue to witness strange substances dumped in the bush or waterways, turning farmland into wasteland. The law must enforce strict tracking of all waste, with quarterly reports submitted to both regulators and affected communities. Environmental accountability must extend beyond the life of an oil facility. When sites are shut down, communities are often abandoned with degraded land and no economic alternative. MDPSER should require post-closure audits and the creation of community transition plans, including retraining, cooperatives, or access to small grants. Abandonment must no longer be an option. Then there is the question of penalties. When oil companies pay fines, where does the money go? Rarely are the communities involved. A fairer system would allocate at least 40% of all environmental fines back to affected communities for projects like clinics, clean water access, or soil restoration. Environmental justice must be visible and tangible. Lastly, grievance reporting mechanisms remain a major gap. If someone in Koluama in Bayelsa State or Koko in Delta State, notices an oil sheen in the river, there is no clear place to report it. Companies must be compelled to establish transparent, independent, and community-accessible grievance systems—not just on paper, but in practice. The MDPSER 2025 can become a landmark piece of legislation, but only if it moves beyond technical compliance to embrace the lived realities of people on the ground. It must build trust through transparency, enforce corporate accountability, and promote community inclusion. The people of the Niger Delta have carried the costs of oil extraction for too long. Their voices must now shape the protections that govern the industry. If strengthened, this bill could mark a turning point—not just for regulation, but for fairness, inclusion, and dignity. It could be the start of something new: a Nigeria where environmental protection is not a promise, but a practice.   Dr. Michael Kabi is an experienced executive, writer, and strategist with over 30 years of Leadership in general management, government affairs, and corporate social responsibility. A seasoned banker and chartered accountant, he has played a pivotal role in shaping corporate policies, stakeholder engagement, and sustainable investment programs. With a doctorate in management specialising in ESG, he blends financial expertise with a strong commitment to social impact. His writing reflects deep insights into policy advocacy, risk management, and leadership, making him a valuable voice in business and public affairs discussions.  

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Worldnews

In Taiwan, Migrants Flee Oppressive Workplaces For Life On The Periphery

The number of unaccounted for migrants on the island has doubled in the last four years, reaching 90,000 this January. This story was produced in partnership with the Pulitzer Center. Taichung City, Taiwan – Bernard keeps a low profile. Heading to work on the streets of Taiwan, the 45-year-old Filipino migrant worker dodges glances and often checks his face mask to make sure his appearance is concealed. To hide his accent, he often speaks in a near-whisper. Often, he declines invitations to social occasions from his fellow countrymen, worried that a “Judas” among them might report him to the authorities. Hired at one of Taiwan’s many electronics factories, Bernard came to the island legally in 2016. But since June 2024, he has been among Taiwan’s growing population of undocumented workers. He blames his broker, a private employment agent to which migrants are usually assigned, for his current predicament. Bernard’s broker tried to confiscate his passport, he said, then tried to convince him to resign and forgo severance payments from his employer. He refused both times, he said, causing a rift between them. “They [brokers] only speak to you when they come to collect payments or when they want to trick you,” Bernard, who asked to use a pseudonym out of fear of repercussions, told Al Jazeera. Brokers in Taiwan take a cut of their clients’ wages and have significant influence over their conditions and job prospects, making their relationships prone to abuse. When Bernard’s contract expired in 2022, he said, his broker blacklisted him among other employers. Desperate to support his daughter’s education in the Philippines, Bernard ditched his broker and decided to overstay his visa to work odd construction jobs, he said. These days, he said, he feels “like a bird in a cage”. In public, Bernard would not even utter the word “undocumented” in any language, only gesturing with his hands that he ran away. Taiwan’s undocumented workforce is rising fast. The number of unaccounted-for migrants on the island has doubled in the last four years, reaching 90,000 this January, according to the Ministry of Labor. Despite Taiwan’s image as one of the region’s rare liberal democracies, a growing number of Southeast Asian migrant workers are living under the constant threat of deportation and without access to social services. Taiwan institutionalised its broker system in 1992 in a bid to streamline labour recruitment. Brokers influence almost every aspect of a migrant worker’s life, from where they live, to their meals, to the terms of their employment contracts, and even how they access public services. Migrant rights advocates say it is precisely this level of control that is prompting large numbers of workers to flee their workplaces. Over a third of all complaints made by migrants to the Ministry of Labor are broker-related, according to official data. As of January 2025, Vietnamese made up the biggest share of the undocumented at 57,611, followed by Indonesians at 28,363, and Filipinos at 2,750. Joy Tajonera, a Catholic priest who runs the Ugnayan Center, a migrant shelter in Taichung City, said the Taiwanese government has taken a lax approach to the issue. “The system allows the brokers a power to be used to the disadvantage of migrants,” Tajonera told Al Jazeera. “Meanwhile, employers play innocent.” Brokers typically charge migrants a monthly service fee of $50 to $60, and also collect fees for job transfers, hospital insurance, leave, and most of the necessary documentation to work in Taiwan. In some cases, they impose age limits for certain jobs. Tajonera said many undocumented workers can actually earn more without a broker, “but then you lose all social protections and health insurance. It’s not that they want to run away. It’s their situation, they can’t take it any more.” Taiwan’s Labor Ministry said in a statement that the increase in undocumented migrants was driven by pandemic-related disruption to deportations. It said it has taken various steps to improve conditions for migrant works, including raising the minimum wage, conducting regular inspections of recruitment agencies, introducing a new suspension mechanism for agencies with high rates of absconding workers, and encouraging labour-sending countries to reduce agency fees. “Through pre-employment orientation for industrial migrant workers and one-stop orientation sessions for household caregivers, the ministry aims to enhance workers’ awareness of legal requirements, inform them of the risks and consequences of going missing, and ensure employers fulfill their management responsibilities,” the ministry said. However, since last year, the Taiwanese government has also increased the maximum fines for migrants caught overstaying their visas from $330 to $1,657. Lennon Ying-Da Wang, director of the public migrant shelter Serve the People Association, called the government’s move to increase penalties “shameless and stupid”. “Instead of addressing the reasons for running away, this will just prevent people from surrendering,” he told Al Jazeera. Wang said a lack of protections, particularly for those working in childcare and fisheries, is the key reason why many migrants abscond from their workplaces. Neither industry is subject to Taiwan’s monthly minimum wage of $944, according to Taiwan’s Labor Standards Act. Wang said migrants in practice often receive half that amount minus deductions by brokers. “Migrants just want a decent salary,” Wang said. “But there’s an unspoken rule among some brokers not to hire migrant workers who ask for help from shelters. That forces them to run away.” Despite his sympathies, Wang, as the director of a state-funded facility, is not allowed to take in migrants who have absconded from their employers as they are subject to deportation. On a quiet, nondescript road at the edge of Taipei lies Harmony Home, an NGO catering to undocumented young mothers and children. While the women and children who stay at Harmony Home cannot be deported for humanitarian reasons, the state is not obligated to shoulder the costs of their care or medical needs. Harmony Home, which has taken in more than 1,600 children over the past two decades, has recently seen a sharp uptick in minors coming through its doors, founder Nicole Yang said. “Last year, we had about 110 new kids. By April this year, we’ve already got 140,” Yang told Al Jazeera. “We also care for 300 others who live at home while their mother works.” Li-Chuan Liuhuang, a labour expert at National Chung Cheng University, said that while the broker system will be difficult to “uproot immediately”, the government could improve oversight by “making the recruitment procedure and cost structure more transparent”. In Lishan, a mountainous area of Taichung, hundreds of undocumented Southeast Asians pick peaches, pears and cabbages for local landowners. The presence of runaway migrants, many of whom fled fishing trawlers, is not only tolerated but relied upon for the harvest. Liuhuang said she would like to see such migrants being allowed to work on farms with proper labour protections, but she believes this would not be easy for the public to accept. “The government will have to commit more efforts for this kind of dialogue,” she told Al Jazeera. Mary, who asked to use a pseudonym, said she absconded from her job as a childcare worker to work illegally at various mountain farms after becoming frustrated at earning less than half the minimum wage and having her grievances ignored by her broker. Sitting beside a cabbage patch, Mary, 46, said she always felt anxious around the police in the city. But in Lishan the rules are different, she said, as landowners have an unwritten agreement with the authorities about the runaways. “There’s no way the boss doesn’t have connections with the police. He always knows when they come and tells us not to go out,” she told Al Jazeera. Even so, there is no guarantee of avoiding mistreatment in the mountains. After the harvest, employers sometimes withhold payments, threatening anyone who complains with deportation, Mary said. “If I complain that the boss doesn’t give me the salary, I will get reported. Who will help me?” she said. Follow Al Jazeera English:...

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News_Naija

Nigeria Doesnt Need Applause, It Needs Access

The International Monetary Fund has urged Nigeria to revise its N54.99 trillion 2025 budget downward in response to weakening oil revenues. It also recommends continued tight monetary policy and high interest rates until inflation further slows. These suggestions may appear sound within orthodox economic models, but for most Nigerians, they are a recipe for deeper suffering. Yes, inflation has decelerated from an average of 31 per cent in 2024 to 22.97 per cent by May 2025. But that improvement hasn’t reached the dinner table. Food prices remain brutal. Over 33 per cent of Nigerians are officially unemployed, and more than 130 million people live in multidimensional poverty. Behind every number is a family skipping meals, a child pulled out of school, or a shopkeeper forced to shutter their store. One of the most damaging constraints in today’s economy isn’t the lack of money. It’s the inability to access it. Most banks avoid lending to those who need credit most. When they do, they slap on interest rates of 27 per cent to 30 per cent and demand collateral far exceeding the value of the loan. It’s a system that locks out the very people who could drive recovery. Credit is the oxygen of an economy. Without it, farmers don’t plant, factories sit idle, and markets shrink. Former U.S. Federal Reserve Chair Ben Bernanke, an expert on financial crises, once observed that the core problem isn’t always overspending, but when capable people can’t borrow. Nigeria is falling squarely into that trap. There is a way out. By reallocating just 3 per cent of the national budget—N1.65 trillion—the government could establish a national loan guarantee fund. This fund would cover the first N10 million in loan risk per borrower, giving commercial banks the confidence to extend credit to those who actually produce. With an average loan size of N1 million, such a move could unlock financing for 1.65 million small-scale farmers, cooperatives, and traders. Even if just two-thirds of those efforts succeed, that’s over a million new jobs. The revenue return is clear. Increased employment expands the tax base. New businesses generate more goods, services, and local demand. Social safety nets face less pressure. That N1.65 trillion doesn’t vanish. It circulates, stimulates, and ultimately strengthens the economy. Meanwhile, the IMF’s warning about Nigeria’s fiscal deficit possibly rising from 4.1% to 4.7% of GDP amounts to a difference of roughly N660 billion. That figure is modest compared to the trillions lost annually to inefficiencies and leakages. It’s also less than what a single thriving sector, such as agriculture, construction, or telecoms, can contribute if properly enabled. If austerity deepens poverty and chokes productivity, then even those advocating restraint today will soon label the country “unstable” tomorrow. But the burden won’t fall on spreadsheets. It will fall on people. Nigeria doesn’t need to blindly follow rigid templates drawn up in distant boardrooms. It needs a tailored approach that empowers its citizens. The economy cannot grow if credit is frozen. The people cannot thrive without opportunity. And the nation cannot progress on fiscal neatness alone. We don’t need applause from global observers. We need access for those ready to build, employ, feed, and innovate. Let’s open the gates, not seal them. Adebamiwa is a media manager and Managing Editor

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Worldnews

Gazas Starving Men And Women Chase Trucks, Face Death To Feed Families

A journey through Gaza’s al-Rashid Street, where hunger drives thousands to risk death chasing aid trucks each day. Gaza City – I only recently witnessed what it’s like for the crowds waiting desperately for aid in Gaza. I don’t see them in Deir el-Balah, but we travel north to Gaza to visit my family, and on the coastal al-Rashid Street, I saw something that made my heart uneasy about the much-discussed ceasefire in Gaza – what if it doesn’t address the aid crisis? This crisis prompted Hamas to request amendments to the proposed ceasefire, on the entry of aid and ending the United States- and Israel-backed Gaza Humanitarian Foundation (GHF), at whose gates Israel kills dozens waiting for aid every day. Since Israel broke the last ceasefire in March, our visits to the north have become highly calculated, less about planning and more about reading the escalation levels of Israeli air strikes. The intention to go north, formed before sleeping, is cancelled when we hear bombs. Conversely, waking up to relative quiet could spur a snap decision. We quickly dress and pack clothes, supplies, and documents, always under one lingering fear: that tanks will cut the road off again and trap us in the north. By the first day of Eid al-Adha, June 6, we had been avoiding visiting my family for three weeks. Israel’s ground assault, “Operation Gideon’s Chariots”, was at its peak, and my husband and I decided to stay put in hopes of avoiding the violence. But eventually, the longing to see family outweighed fear and our daughter Banias really wanted to see her grandfather for Eid, so we made the trip. The journeys reveal the dysfunction of Gaza’s current transport system. A trip that used to take just over 20 minutes in a private car – door to door from Deir el-Balah to my family’s home in Gaza City – now requires multiple stops, long walks, and long waits for unreliable transport. To reach Gaza City, we take three “internal rides” within central Gaza, short trips between neighbourhoods or towns like az-Zawayda, Deir el-Balah, and Nuseirat, often on shared donkey carts or old cars dragging open carts behind them. Waiting for these rides can take an hour or more, the donkey carts holding up to 12 people, and car-cart combinations carrying six in the car, plus 10 to 12 in the cart. Then comes the “external ride”, longer, riskier travel between governorates usually involving a crowded tuk-tuk carrying 10 passengers or more along bombed-out roads. Since the January truce – broken by Israel in March – Israel has allowed only pedestrian and cart movement, with vehicles prohibited. The entire trip can take up to two hours, depending on road conditions. Exhausting journeys have become my new normal, especially when travelling with children. My last two trips north brought me face-to-face with the “aid seekers”. That harsh label has dominated news headlines recently, but witnessing their journey up close defies all imagination. It belongs to another world entirely. On June 6, to fulfil Banias’s Eid wish to see her grandfather, we boarded a tuk-tuk as evening fell. Near the western edge of what people in Gaza call al-Shari al-Jadeed (“the new road”), the 7km Netzarim Corridor that the Israeli army built to bisect the enclave, I saw hundreds of people on sand dunes on both sides of the street. Some had lit fires and gathered around them. It’s a barren, ghostly stretch of sand and rubble, filled with the living shadows of Gaza’s most desperate. I started filming with my phone as the other passengers explained that these “aid seekers” were waiting to intercept aid trucks and grab whatever they could. Some of them are also waiting for an “American GHF” distribution point on the parallel Salah al-Din Street, which is supposed to open at dawn. A bitter discussion ensued about the US-run aid point that had “caused so many deaths”. The aid system, they said, had turned survival into a lottery and dignity into a casualty. I sank into thought, seeing this was entirely different from reading about it or watching the news. Banias snapped me out of my thoughts: “Mama, what are these people doing here? Camping?” Oh God! This child lives in her own, rosy world. My mind reeled from her cheerful interpretation of one of the bleakest scenes I’d ever witnessed: black smoke, emaciated bodies, hunger, dust-filled roads. I was silent, unable to answer. Men and boys passed by, some with backpacks, others with empty white bags like flour sacks, for whatever they might find. Cardboard boxes are too hard to carry. The aid seekers walk from all over Gaza, gathering in the thousands to wait all night until 4, 5, or 6am, fearing that Israeli soldiers will kill them before they can get into the “American GHF”. According to reports, they rush in to grab whatever they can, a chaotic stampede where the strong devour the weak. These men were death projects in waiting; they know, but they go anyway. Why? Because hunger persists and there’s no other solution. It’s either die of hunger or die trying to survive it. We reached Gaza City. Dust, darkness, and congestion surrounded us as the tuk-tuk drove through completely destroyed roads. As each jolt shot through our backs, a passenger remarked: “We’ll all have back pain and disc issues from this tuk-tuk.” A silence fell, broken by Banias, our little reporter from the pink world: “Mama, Baba, look at the moon behind you! It’s completely full. “I think I see Aunt Mayar in the sky next to the moon,” Banias said, about my sister who travelled during the war to Egypt, then Qatar. When we asked how, she explained: “She said her name means the star that lives beside the moon. Look!” We smiled despite the misery, too drained to respond. The other passengers listened in to her dreamlike observations. “Baba, when will we study astronomy in school?” she asked. “I want to learn about the moon and stars.” We didn’t have time to answer. We had arrived, and the curtain fell on another exhausting day. I told my family what I saw on al-Rashid, and they listened, shocked and intrigued, to their “field correspondent”. They, too, were preoccupied with food shortages, discussing mixing their last kilo of flour with pasta to stretch it further – conversations ruled by fear of hunger and the unknown. We didn’t stay long, just two days before heading back along a road filled with fear of bombing and aid seekers. Only this time it was daylight, and I could see women sitting by the road, ready to spend the night waiting for aid. About two weeks later, on June 26, we made the trip again. I travelled with my two children, my sister – who had come back with us on the last trip – and my brother’s wife and her two young children: four-year-old Salam and two-year-old Teeb. My husband came the next day. We were seven in a small, worn-out minibus, and we had nine others crammed in with us: three men beside the driver, a young man with his wife and sister, and a woman with her husband and child. Sixteen people in a van, clearly not built for that! Although vehicles are banned from al-Rashid, some do manage to pass. Tired and worried about the young children with us, we took the risk and, that day, we made it. I don’t know whether it was fate or misfortune, but as our van neared the area around the Netzarim Corridor, World Food Programme trucks arrived. Two trucks stopped on the road, waiting to be “looted”. People in Gaza will tell you this is a new policy under Israeli terms: no organised distribution, no lists. Just let the trucks in, let whoever can take aid, take it, and let the rest die. On a nearby street, three others also stopped. People began climbing the trucks, grabbing what they could. Within moments, all vehicles, tuk-tuks, and carts, including our van, stopped. Everyone around us – men, women, and children – started running towards the trucks. A commotion erupted in our car. The young man travelling with his wife and sister insisted on going despite their pleas not to. He jumped out and two other men followed. I was most shocked when a woman behind us shoved past, telling her husband and son: “I’m going. You stay.” She ran like the wind. Other women and girls left nearby vehicles and sprinted to the trucks. I wondered: Would she be able to climb up the side of a truck and wrestle men for food? Human waves surged around us, seemingly from nowhere, and I begged our driver to move on. The scene felt like a battle for survival, well past thoughts of dignity, justice, and humanity. The driver moved slowly; he had to keep stopping to avoid the crowds of people running in the opposite direction. My anxiety spiked. The kids sensed it too. None of us could comprehend what we were seeing, not even me, a journalist who claims to be informed. The truth: reality is entirely different. As we drove, I saw young men clutching bags, standing by the roadside. One had a knife, fearing he’d be attacked. Other men carried blades or tools because being attacked by fellow hungry people is not unlikely. “We’ve become thieves just to eat and feed our children,” is the new phase Israel is imposing through its “humanitarian” US-run foundation and its “distribution policy”. And here we are, in this collapsing social order, where only the cries of empty stomachs are heard. How can we blame people for their misery? Did they choose this war? The car wound its way through until the flood of aid seekers finally dissipated. It felt like emerging from another world. We reached an intersection downtown, completely drained. I silently unpacked the car, wondering: How many sorrowful worlds are buried within you, Gaza? That day, I saw the world of the aid seekers after spending 20 months immersed in the worlds of the displaced, the wounded, the dead, the hungry, and the thirsty. How many more worlds of suffering must Gaza endure before the world finally sees us – and we finally earn a lasting ceasefire? Follow Al Jazeera English:...