News Desk
Malé, Maldives — When the Disability Council met with the Ministry of Health this week to discuss delays in the psychologist licensing process, the announcement sounded like another routine bureaucratic exchange. But for many young Maldivians trying to enter the health sector, the delays are not abstract policy issues. They are the difference between employment and unemployment, between dignity and despair.
Ameena — not her real name — is one of them. For privacy, she asked that her identity not be disclosed. She submitted her application for licensing to the Allied Health Council in late October. November passed. Early December arrived. Still nothing.
When a relative finally approached the counter to ask about the status of her application, the response was almost casual: “You will get a reply today in an email.” The email came.
What, she wondered, had her request been doing all this time — hibernating on a ministry computer?
A few days later, the council requested additional documents. She submitted them immediately. Then the silence resumed.
It is a familiar pattern. In the Maldives, phone numbers of ministries — almost all ministries — often function more as proof of existence than as channels of public service. Calls ring endlessly. Reception desks repeat the same lines. And applicants wait.
When Ameena’s family approached the counter again, some days ago, the receptionist said the file was now “with the committee” and “waiting for their eyes.” How long would it take? What were the next steps? Would there be an interview, an assessment, a timeline? The answer was the same each time: “We will inform you by email.”
When pressed — Do you actually know the process, or do you simply not know? — the reply did not change.
This is the Ministry of Health, a 93‑year‑old institution in a country that likes to call itself modern. Yet in the 21st century, young professionals still wait for someone to write basic SOPs, to streamline administration, to make the system function with the efficiency the public is told to expect.
For Ameena, the delay is not just an inconvenience. She took a loan to complete her degree at one of the best universities in the world. Her family stretched their limited income to support her. Now she is back home, qualified, ready to serve in a field the country urgently needs — and unable to work because she does not have a license.
She has already seen three job openings in her area of study. She cannot apply for any of them.
Her family has no brother or sister in the Majlis, no relative in a high post to offer sifaarish or no contact to complain or a Sai. She is one of many overly qualified young Maldivians listed as unemployed, living off her parents’ meagre income while her loan repayment date approaches.
The frustration is not hers alone. Across the country, complaints pour in — often with tears — about government officials who are paid with taxpayers’ money, funded by GST collected from corner shops, yet spend their mornings in Red Zone coffee shops while people wait for their requests to be heard.
The president has said he wants to be approachable, that he wants to listen to the people. And, to his credit, he has done this — holding town hall meetings across the islands and in Male’, a rarity in Maldivian politics, where the public is too often treated as little more than an ID‑card number when election season approaches.
But many Maldivians say the officials in this administration are among the most unresponsive they have seen in nearly two decades — unhinged, uncaring, thick‑skinned.
Some believe there is only one way forward: the creation of an ombudsman’s office empowered to handle disputes between government entities and the public. The complaints are not rare; they are daily.
They come from small traders, SMEs, job seekers, — including those who recently raised concerns about the Agriculture Ministry, a story of its own.
Even basic transparency is elusive. Many ministries do not maintain proper websites. Information disappears when a new appointee takes the high chair, as if earlier data must be erased so only the current official’s “glory” remains — a habit reminiscent of pharaohs chiselling out the names of predecessors.
The exception is the President’s Office website, which retains its archives and functions as a data mine. The same cannot be said for most ministries.
For Ameena, the wait continues. Her future — and the futures of many like her — sits somewhere on a desk, in a file, waiting for “their eyes.”
And the country waits too, for a system that works.
