Our generation was friendlier, more honest, more humane… and genuinely happy.
Every year, I am more convinced that the world I grew up in is gone forever.
I’m getting old. My generation is fading, and with it, the spirit of unity that once filled our lives with meaning and shared endeavors is disappearing.
Now, I turn on the television and see the same things over and over: floods, broken roads, littered streets, chaos. And endless blame games—the government, officials, businesses are at fault, never the people themselves.
I look at the young people today and realize something has gone amiss. They complain, demand, protest. But in our time, we simply rolled up our sleeves and got things done.
We built our country with our own hands.
We were the post-war generation, a time of grand projects and rebuilding. We didn’t sit in offices penning grievances or demanding compensations. We resurrected our nation from its ruins, crafted it with what we had because we believed—we were doing it not for someone else, but for ourselves and our children.
We built roads, tunnels, bridges. We erected factories, worked the fields, and created reservoirs that supported agriculture. And we didn’t just build—we maintained everything with care.
I grew up in a village beside a river. We knew if we didn’t keep an eye on it, come spring, water could overflow and flood our homes.
But nobody waited for the “experts” to arrive.
In spring and autumn, the whole village gathered. We cleared the riverbed, removed blockages, cut down old trees that might hinder the water flow.
No one asked for wages. No one waited for orders from “above.”
And after the day’s work, we spread blankets on the grass, shared food from our bags, and enjoyed a meal together. In the evening, someone would bring out an accordion, and the entire village would sing.
We were one family.
Today, people are different.
Now, no one wants to take responsibility for their own life.
I see young men, strong and healthy, whining on social media about a fallen bridge outside their window or a burst pipe, complaining that they write to the council and get silence in return.
And I feel like asking:
“What have you done yourself?”
Why haven’t you gathered your neighbors, gone out, cleaned up, strengthened, repaired? Why do you wait for someone else to arrive and solve your issues?
I’m not excusing the authorities. They have their faults—they’ve forgotten that their job isn’t just sitting in offices and making promises.
But people have changed too.
Today, everyone is out for themselves.
Some make money off everything they can, sell land that once fed generations, drain reservoirs for their own benefit.
And when disaster strikes, they shrug: “What could we do?”
I’m proud of my generation.
I know they call us “old.” That they laugh at our habits, our resilience.
But you know what?
I’m proud of how we lived.
Proud that we knew the value of work.
That we didn’t hide behind others; we solved our problems ourselves.
We didn’t wait for help from the government—we built our lives with our own hands.
We were united. Genuine.
Honest.
Humane.
We lived, not just existed.
And we were happy.
