I look at my people, and I look at those who control them - the

Hear the lament of Youssou N’Dour, who speaks with the clarity of one who loves his homeland: “I look at my people, and I look at those who control them—the political elite. And the sad thing is that the elites are just not interested in the welfare of the people.” In this cry is not only sorrow but also warning: that when rulers forget their duty, when leaders abandon the care of those they serve, the covenant between the governed and the governing is broken. For the true measure of power is not wealth, nor privilege, but the well-being of the people whose lives depend upon it.

The people, humble and countless, are the lifeblood of a nation. They labor in the fields, they build the cities, they raise children, they sing songs of hope in the night. Yet often their voices are silenced by the elites, who wield authority not as stewards but as masters. N’Dour names the sorrow plainly: that too many in power seek not to nurture, but to enrich themselves, not to listen, but to command. This is the sad thing—that those entrusted with leadership turn away from compassion, leaving their people to suffer in neglect.

The ancients, too, knew this truth. In the chronicles of Egypt, it is written that a pharaoh who hoarded grain during famine lost the loyalty of his people, while the pharaoh who opened the storehouses was remembered as a god. In Rome, the emperors who sought only their own pleasure brought ruin to the empire, but those who cared for the welfare of the people—feeding them, protecting them, honoring them—were remembered with gratitude. History teaches us always: when the elite forget the people, decline is not far behind.

One may recall also the tale of Marie Antoinette in France. When her starving people cried for bread, legend says she replied, “Let them eat cake.” Whether or not those exact words were spoken, the symbol remains: a ruling class so removed from the reality of suffering that it could not see the storm approaching. The Revolution came, the monarchy fell, and the elites who ignored the cries of the people paid the price of their indifference. N’Dour’s words remind us of this eternal cycle: neglect breeds rebellion, arrogance sows downfall.

Yet within his sorrow there is also a call to action. If the elite will not act for the good of the people, then the people themselves must raise their voices, demand accountability, and lift leaders who remember their sacred duty. For power was never meant to be a private treasure; it is a trust, a stewardship, a burden carried on behalf of the many. The welfare of the people is not an afterthought—it is the foundation of just rule.

The lesson for us is clear: do not be blinded by the glitter of those in high places. Judge leaders not by their wealth, not by their words, but by their deeds toward the most vulnerable. Support those who act with compassion; resist those who exploit. And in your own sphere—whether large or small—be not as the selfish elite, but as the true servant of others. For leadership begins not in palaces but in the heart, when one chooses to place the welfare of another above the hunger of the self.

So let Youssou N’Dour’s lament be remembered as both sorrow and summons. The sad thing he names is real, yet it need not be eternal. If the people awaken, if compassion guides those who rise to power, then the bond between ruler and ruled can be restored. And when leaders love their people, and people trust their leaders, then a nation may flourish in justice, in strength, and in song. For the welfare of the people is the only true foundation upon which greatness can endure.