Honouring Atrocities: What Prince Yormie Johnson’s Funeral Says About Us

By Julius T. Jaesen, II

Oh, Liberia, a “Glorious Land of Liberty”, what have you become? Today, in the heart of Gompa City, Nimba County, a page of our history turns, and it is inked in blood, betrayal, shame, disgrace, and grief. The nation gathers not to weep for justice nor to honour all courageous compatriots who lost their lives in the fight for true democracy, freedom and social justice but to glorify and deify a murderous rapist whose hands are stained with the lifeblood of over 250,000 Liberians. A state funeral, they call it—a ceremony of dignity bestowed upon a warlord, Senator Prince Yormie Johnson, a name that reverberates with both power and pain.

What does it say about us, oh Liberia, that we now immortalise those who brought ruin and genocidal wars to our land? What does it say about a nation when the architects of suffering are adorned in death with glory and honour? Our people sing songs of praise, their voices drowning out the cries of the countless souls who fell under his reign of terror. How can a nation heal when its wounds are not only ignored but celebrated?

A state funeral, dazzling with pomp and pageantry, for a man who once presided over atrocities unimaginable. Where is the honour in honoring violence? Where is the dignity in celebrating destruction? To elevate warlords to pedestals of reverence is to desecrate the graves of the innocent, whose cries for justice still echo through the moving air we breathe.

We mourn today, but not for the man whose body lies in state. We mourn for our nation, for the soul of Liberia, which seems to have been buried alongside the truth. A truth we refuse to face, a truth we cloak in denial. For every wreath laid at his coffin, there is a forgotten grave somewhere in our forests—unmarked, untended, unremembered. The graves of men, women, and children whose only crime was living in a time of chaos.

Oh Liberia, your conscience sleeps while your history screams. How can we teach our children of justice when we crown those who mocked it? How can we speak of peace while lifting high those who waged war? A warlord’s pedestal is built upon the bones of the silenced, yet today we gild that pedestal with gold and call it patriotism.

The people of Nimba County celebrate, hailing their son as a hero. But what of those in Monrovia, Lofa, or Grand Gedeh? What of the countless Liberians who bear the scars of his rise to power? What of the family of President Samuel Doe, whose brutal execution under his command remains one of the darkest chapters of our history? Can their grief find solace in this ceremony? Can their cries for justice be answered by our collective amnesia?

To honour Prince Yormie Johnson in life and death is to honour every warlord who turned Liberia into a battlefield. It is to honour suffering. It is to honour war. And it is to dishonour peace. Every hymn sung today is a hymn of hypocrisy; every prayer offered is a prayer for our nation’s damnation.

Oh Liberia, what legacy do we leave behind? Do we teach our children that violence begets glory? Do we show them that power is the ultimate arbiter of morality? Today’s spectacle is a lesson etched in shame, a reminder that our nation has chosen to forget its past rather than confront it.

Let the world bear witness to this day when a nation chose to honour its oppressors and warlords instead of its martyrs. Let history record this lamentation, so that future generations may know that we were complicit, that we were silent, that we sang songs for a man who once silenced over 250,000 Liberians.

We cannot build a future on a foundation of lies. We cannot preach peace while glorifying warlords. We cannot claim justice while burying its memory alongside those who fought for it. Today, Liberia has not only lost a man; it has lost its way.

Oh Liberia, when will you rise from the ashes of your contradictions? When will you honour those who lived for peace rather than those who thrived on war? When will justice flow like a river, washing away the stains of our collective guilt?

Until that day comes, we mourn—not for Prince Yormie Johnson, but for ourselves. For the Liberia we could have been, and the Liberia we still refuse to become.