10/01/2026
Meagan Good
Dear Megan Good and Jonathan Majors,
The foreigner never sees the suffering of his host’s children. Everywhere he goes, he is warmly welcomed, well protected, fed, and honored. Doors are opened to him, his stay is secured, and his comfort is guaranteed. And when he leaves, he is still given money, gifts, and food. Naturally, wherever he goes, he praises the quality of the welcome he received, the apparent stability of the country, and the kindness of those who hosted him. But this perspective is only superficial—a protected gaze that never penetrates the walls behind which popular suffering is hidden.
I write to you today because your names, images, and international reputation are being used—sometimes without your full awareness—for political gain by the current regime in Guinea. Your presence and visibility are presented as symbols of legitimacy and approval, while the lived reality of the Guinean people tells a very different story.
Since the events linked to Doumbouya’s rise to power, Guinea has been experiencing a profound human rights crisis. The Guinean people are paying an immense human, social, and moral price—one that foreign visitors and partners of convenience are carefully prevented from seeing.
The country has lost senior military figures, including General Sadiba Koulibaly and Colonel Célestin Bilivogui, as well as hundreds of rank-and-file soldiers whose deaths have never been independently investigated and whose families have received neither truth nor justice. Beyond the military, activists and civic leaders such as Foniké Menguè, Aliou Bah, Billo Bah, Marouane Camara, Nimaga, and many others have been arrested, abducted, or forced into silence. Hundreds of civilians—students, journalists, union members, market vendors, and ordinary citizens—have been detained without due process or imprisoned simply for exercising their fundamental rights to free expression, peaceful assembly, and political participation.
Independent media outlets have been systematically targeted. Private radio stations and critical news platforms have been shut down, suspended, or censored, depriving the population of independent information and silencing dissenting voices. Journalists operate under constant threat, with harassment, arbitrary summons, and arrests becoming routine tools of repression.
At the same time, hundreds of public and private properties have been expropriated without transparent legal procedures, often benefiting a narrow circle linked to power. Entire neighborhoods have been demolished, families displaced without adequate compensation, and livelihoods destroyed. Thousands of jobs have been lost as businesses close under pressure, pushing already vulnerable households deeper into poverty and insecurity. Mining and strategic contracts have been signed behind closed doors, outside any democratic or legal oversight, mortgaging the country’s future without the consent of its people.
There is also a serious red flag that deserves attention. How can a country grant a diplomatic passport to someone who has only recently become a citizen, without a clear public mandate, institutional role, or transparent legal justification? Diplomatic passports are instruments of state sovereignty, not political favors. Their arbitrary distribution raises serious concerns about governance, accountability, and the misuse of state authority.
Equally troubling is the constant presence of armed men surrounding visitors. When every movement is secured by heavily armed escorts, it is not a sign of peace or stability—it is a sign of fear. A country that truly enjoys popular support does not need rifles to protect its image. The omnipresence of weapons is meant to intimidate the population while reassuring guests that “everything is under control.” This contrast itself is a warning.
This is the reality hidden behind ceremonial receptions, luxury hotels, air-conditioned conference rooms, armed convoys, and carefully scripted speeches. This is what foreign guests are not shown—and what your names risk helping to conceal.
The gap between the image projected to the outside world and the suffering endured within the country is one of the greatest injustices of our time. A nation should not be judged by how well it treats its visitors, but by the dignity, safety, and rights it guarantees to its own citizens.
This letter is not written in hostility, nor as an accusation against you personally. It is an appeal to conscience and responsibility. Your voices matter. Your images carry moral weight. When they are used—knowingly or unknowingly—to sanitize repression, normalize fear, or legitimize injustice, they become instruments of political propaganda.
We ask only this: that your names not be used to legitimize human rights violations, silence, or suffering. That your influence, if it is invoked at all, stand on the side of dignity, justice, and truth.
As long as the pain of Guinea’s children remains invisible to those who are warmly received, injustice will continue to flourish behind diplomatic smiles.
Respectfully,
— A voice from the Guinean people
