THE DIASPORA.

 

The Diaspora: A Nation Beyond Its Borders

For decades, the Guyanese diaspora has been an influential extension of the homeland. Since the 1950s, successive waves of Guyanese emigrants have established communities across North America and Britain, particularly in Toronto, London, and Brooklyn. Though separated from their birthplace by thousands of miles, many have remained deeply connected to Guyana’s political, economic, and social life.

I call this community Region 11—an unofficial region whose influence extends beyond Guyana’s geographical boundaries. Its members have contributed financially to families at home, supported political movements, participated in national debates, and influenced the direction of successive governments.

The political significance of this diaspora is not new. The People’s National Congress (PNC), under Forbes Burnham, recognised the importance of overseas Guyanese communities. Later, the return of the People’s Progressive Party (PPP) to office in 1992 did not diminish the diaspora’s political relevance. Instead, overseas communities continued to attract the attention of political leaders seeking support, influence, and legitimacy.

Brooklyn, Toronto, and London became important meeting places where Guyana’s political rivalries were debated and national loyalties were tested. Successive administrations cultivated relationships with overseas communities, recognising that the diaspora could contribute not only financial resources but also political influence.

Yet an important question remains: Has Region 11 used its collective influence to secure the national transformation that Guyana needs?

Beyond Boycotts: From Reaction to Responsible Action

In 2024, President Irfaan Ali’s visit to Brooklyn became a source of controversy. Calls emerged on social media for boycotts of businesses that had hosted the President during his walkabout. For those advocating such action, the boycott was a means of protesting government policies, perceived political favouritism, and injustices at home.

But is a boycott the most effective way for the diaspora to exercise its influence?

Political protest has its place in a democracy. Citizens have the right to withhold their support from businesses and institutions whose conduct they oppose. However, a protest must be judged by its objectives, its effectiveness, and its consequences. If it merely deepens divisions within the Guyanese community abroad, it may weaken the very influence that Region 11 needs to exercise.

History offers lessons worth examining. Boycotts and other forms of economic protest in colonial British Guiana confronted established commercial interests, including D’Aguiar’s Imperial House. Such episodes remind us that challenging powerful institutions requires more than anger; it requires organisation, sustained public engagement, and a clear strategy.

The diaspora must therefore decide whether it wishes to remain an audience for Guyana’s political disputes or become an organised force capable of influencing national policy.

Our strength will not be measured by the number of businesses we boycott or the volume of our online arguments. It will be measured by our ability to demand accountability, promote economic opportunity, and bring citizens together around a common national purpose.

Understanding the Roots of Division

Much of Guyana’s political tension cannot be understood without examining its colonial history.

When the territories that became British Guiana came under British rule, the colonial administration sought to sustain and expand the plantation economy. The movement of people, the organisation of labour, and the distribution of economic opportunity were shaped by the demands of colonial production.

Emancipation brought freedom to enslaved Africans, but it did not bring economic equality. Many formerly enslaved people pooled their savings, purchased land, and established villages. Through agriculture, Sunday markets, and collective effort, they created communities that offered a measure of independence from the plantation system.

Indian indentured labourers, meanwhile, were recruited to maintain the supply of labour to the sugar estates. During their contracts, many lived under restrictive conditions in plantation settlements. Their experiences differed from those of emancipated Africans, who faced the challenge of building independent lives in a colony whose economy remained dominated by sugar.

These communities endured different forms of hardship within the same colonial system. The emancipated African struggled to establish economic independence, while the indentured Indian laboured under a system designed to bind workers to plantation production.

Neither experience should be diminished to elevate the other.

The history of Guyana is not the exclusive inheritance of any one ethnic group. It is the accumulated history of Africans, Indians, Indigenous peoples, Portuguese, Chinese, and others whose labour, struggles, and aspirations helped shape the country.

Recognising these differences is essential. So, too, is recognising the shared experience of a society structured by colonial power.

The challenge before us is to understand how these historical inequalities influenced the politics of independent Guyana—and why ethnic loyalties continue to influence political choices today.

The Village, the Community, and the Meaning of Wealth

I was particularly struck by a discussion on Politics 101 about the changing character of Afro-Guyanese village life.

One participant recalled a time when families possessed little material wealth but enjoyed strong communal relationships. The village was not merely a place of residence; it was a network of shared responsibilities. Churches, schools, discipline, education, and mutual assistance helped shape the lives of successive generations.

People took pride in service to their communities. A teacher or policeman could command respect because of the contribution made to society. Success was not measured exclusively by the possessions one accumulated.

That recollection raises an important question: what happens to a community when collective responsibility gives way to individual survival?

Economic hardship can weaken communal bonds. When people must struggle simply to meet their daily needs, cooperation becomes more difficult and competition more intense. Material possessions may increasingly become symbols of status, while public service and community contribution receive less recognition.

These concerns deserve serious attention. Government policy should strengthen community institutions, expand opportunities for young people, and support small businesses that create lasting employment. Economic development must not be measured solely by national revenue or the construction of impressive infrastructure. It must also be measured by whether ordinary citizens experience greater security, dignity, and opportunity.

The same principle applies across Guyana’s ethnic communities. The preservation of communal values should not mean a return to the hardships of the past. It should mean carrying forward the best traditions of solidarity while creating the conditions for modern economic independence.

Economic Opportunity and the Question of Fairness

Concerns about the distribution of government contracts have become part of Guyana’s wider political debate. On a Politics 101 discussion concerning the economy and justice, I was struck by claims that lucrative government contracts were concentrated among a relatively small group of Indian Guyanese businesses, with comparatively few Afro-Guyanese contractors benefiting.

Such claims deserve examination through transparent procurement records, contract-award data, and independent scrutiny. Allegations of ethnic favouritism should not be treated as proven without supporting evidence. Equally, they should not be dismissed without investigation.

Public procurement is not simply an administrative matter. It determines which businesses grow, which communities gain employment, and who participates in the country’s economic transformation.

Every qualified Guyanese business should have a fair opportunity to compete for public contracts. The criteria should be transparent, the evaluation process accountable, and the results open to scrutiny.

Where unequal access exists, the government should identify the barriers and address them. Where allegations are unfounded, reliable evidence should establish that fact.

This is how a country builds trust: not through political assurances, but through institutions that citizens can examine and hold accountable.

Guyana’s oil wealth makes this responsibility even more urgent. The expanding economy should create opportunities for manufacturers, contractors, agricultural producers, skilled workers, and entrepreneurs from every community. If citizens come to believe that national wealth benefits only a connected minority, economic growth may deepen political resentment instead of strengthening national unity.

A prosperous Guyana must be one in which every citizen has a fair chance to participate in its prosperity.

From Political Allegiance to National Leadership

Guyana’s political history has been shaped by the rivalry between the PNC and the PPP. For generations, many citizens have viewed politics through the lens of ethnic identity, historical grievances, and inherited loyalties.

Alternative political movements have periodically promised to break this pattern. The emergence of the so-called Third Force and other political initiatives reflected a genuine desire among some citizens for a different direction. Yet the promise of an alternative has not always translated into a durable national movement.

New political labels alone cannot transform a country. A movement must demonstrate integrity, organisational discipline, policy competence, and the ability to unite people whose political experiences differ.

The People’s Movement emerged from my own desire for such an alternative. I believed Guyana needed a movement rooted in patriotism, economic development, social justice, and national independence of thought—not another organisation trapped by the rivalries of established political parties.

Its limited progress also illustrates the difficulty of building a national movement in a deeply polarised environment. Good intentions are insufficient. A movement must earn public confidence through practical proposals, credible leadership, and consistent engagement with ordinary citizens.

Guyana needs leadership that is patriotic rather than partisan, accountable rather than self-serving, and committed to the national interest rather than the preservation of political power.

The objective should not be to replace one ethnic constituency with another. It should be to establish a political culture in which citizens can support a government because of its policies and performance, and oppose it when it fails to meet its obligations.

That is the foundation upon which a genuine national movement can be built.

Region 11 Must Find Its Collective Voice

The Guyanese diaspora possesses resources that extend well beyond remittances. It includes experienced professionals, entrepreneurs, skilled tradespeople, academics, community organisers, and citizens familiar with institutions and economic systems outside Guyana.

These resources could contribute substantially to national development if they were organised around clear and achievable objectives.

Yet diaspora organisations often operate separately, divided by geography, political allegiance, personal rivalries, and differing priorities. Their voices may be heard individually, but their collective influence remains less than it could be.

Region 11 has an opportunity to change that.

Imagine a united diaspora organisation committed to transparent governance, fair public procurement, technical and vocational training, manufacturing, agricultural development, youth employment, and the responsible management of national resources.

Such an organisation would not need to become an extension of either the PPP or the PNC. Its purpose would be to hold every administration to consistent national standards.

It could publish policy recommendations, organise public forums, connect Guyanese businesses with overseas expertise, support educational initiatives, and establish measurable development priorities.

It could also create a space in which Afro-Guyanese, Indo-Guyanese, Indigenous Guyanese, and members of other communities work together without being required to abandon their identities or historical experiences.

This is not a call for uniformity. It is a call for cooperation.

Region 11 should be able to engage with the government of the day without surrendering its independence, and criticise the government without allowing criticism to become an excuse for ethnic hostility.

The diaspora's greatest contribution may be its ability to demonstrate that Guyanese identity can transcend the political boundaries that have divided the homeland.

Oil Wealth, Economic Independence, and the Future

Guyana stands at a critical point in its history. Oil has created extraordinary opportunities, but natural resources alone cannot guarantee lasting prosperity.

The country's experience with sugar, rice, and bauxite offers important lessons about economic concentration, state management, and the consequences of allowing established industries to decline. The rise of petroleum creates an opportunity to build a more diversified economy, but that opportunity must be managed carefully.

Oil revenue should help develop skills, strengthen education, improve public services, expand local manufacturing, modernise agriculture, and create sustainable employment. It should also support the development of businesses capable of competing beyond Guyana's borders.

The diaspora can contribute directly to this transformation by connecting local enterprises with international markets, sharing technical knowledge, mentoring young entrepreneurs, and encouraging responsible investment.

However, development cannot depend on the diaspora alone. The government must establish fair rules, strengthen institutions, and ensure that public resources are managed in the national interest.

Nor should Guyana's future depend excessively on any foreign power. International partnerships with countries such as the United States, China, and others can provide valuable opportunities, but Guyana must retain the capacity to make independent decisions based on its own long-term interests.

True economic independence is not isolation. It is the ability to engage with the world from a position of confidence, competence, and national purpose.

The Past Must Inform Us, Not Imprison Us

Guyana's history includes slavery, indentureship, colonial exploitation, political upheaval, and periods of ethnic conflict. The Wismar Massacre and other episodes of violence remain part of the country's difficult historical inheritance.

These events must be studied honestly. They should neither be forgotten nor exploited to justify fresh hostility.

The danger arises when history becomes a weapon wielded against present-day neighbours. The descendants of those who suffered under different systems should not be made responsible for every injustice committed in the past. Nor should historical grievances be dismissed simply because they are uncomfortable.

We must distinguish between remembering injustice and perpetuating division.

Our ancestors, in different circumstances and through different struggles, helped create the society we inherited. Their experiences deserve recognition, and their contributions deserve respect. Our responsibility is to build a country in which future generations are not condemned to repeat the conflicts of previous ones.

The national question is not whether one community has suffered more than another. It is whether we possess the political maturity to acknowledge our different histories and build institutions that protect the rights and opportunities of all.

Guyana cannot change its past. It can, however, change the way its past shapes the future.

A Call for a New People's Movement

I believe the time has come for Guyanese at home and abroad to reconsider the nature of their political participation.

We cannot continue to expect different results while relying on the same habits of partisan loyalty, personal ambition, and ethnic mobilisation. Neither the established parties nor the alternative movements should be beyond scrutiny.

A new People's Movement must be built on principles that are practical and measurable:

• National unity: Reject ethnic hostility while acknowledging the historical experiences of every community.
• Accountable government: Demand transparency in public spending, procurement, and the management of national resources.
• Economic opportunity: Promote local manufacturing, skills development, entrepreneurship, and employment for young Guyanese.
• Independent citizenship: Encourage citizens to judge political parties by their conduct and policies rather than inherited allegiance.
• Diaspora partnership: Bring overseas expertise, investment, and experience into a structured programme of national development.
• Historical understanding: Teach the country's complex past honestly, without turning history into an instrument of political revenge.

This movement must not become another vehicle for personal ambition. Its credibility will depend on its willingness to practise the standards it demands of others.

It must also understand that unity is not achieved by asking citizens to remain silent about injustice. Genuine unity requires fairness, accountability, and the confidence that every community has a meaningful place in the national project.

The people who must lead this effort are not necessarily the loudest voices on social media or the most influential figures in political circles. They are citizens who are prepared to work patiently, listen honestly, and place the country's long-term interests above personal or partisan advantage.

The Country Waits

For those who have witnessed Guyana's political journey over the past seven decades, the present moment brings both disappointment and possibility.

We have inherited a country shaped by centuries of labour, sacrifice, cultural exchange, and struggle. Our ancestors helped transform a colonial outpost into an independent nation. Their descendants now face a different challenge: ensuring that independence delivers a fairer society and a more secure future.

Region 11 has a responsibility in that undertaking. Its influence should not be measured solely by its ability to support or oppose a president, a political party, or a particular administration. It should be measured by what it can help Guyana achieve.

The diaspora must move beyond periodic political excitement and build a sustained programme of engagement. It must ask difficult questions, offer practical solutions, and insist that public institutions serve the entire population.

Above all, it must show that national unity is more than a slogan.

Can Guyana become a nation in which prosperity is shared more fairly, public office is exercised responsibly, and ethnic identity no longer determines the limits of political cooperation?

I believe it can. But hope without organisation is insufficient, and criticism without constructive action cannot deliver the transformation we seek.

The future of Guyana cannot be entrusted to any single party, ethnic group, or leader. It must be shaped by citizens who recognise that their differences need not prevent them from pursuing common goals.

Region 11, the opportunity is before us. Let us use our collective experience, resources, and influence to help build a Guyana that belongs to all its people.

The past is always present in our memories. But it is the future that must guide our actions.

The country waits. The responsibility is ours.

 

MAKING OF A NATION

APRIL 20, 2024

Opening the door, I stepped into my office. The lingering fragrance of Valentino greeted me, a subtle reminder of the thorough work the cleaners had done the previous evening. As always, they had left everything immaculate. The cherry-coloured wooden desk gleamed beneath the soft morning light, its polished surface reflecting an understated elegance.

On the desk stood a telephone, a notepad, and a brass nameplate bearing my name and title:

MOHABIR PERSAUD, PRESIDENT

Beneath it, engraved in bold lettering, were the words SEIGNET PRECISION—a gift from my employees many years ago. It was more than a nameplate. It was a reminder of a chapter of my life built on work, responsibility, and the relationships forged along the way.

In the corner, my Lenovo computer awaited me, silent and ready.

I placed my A&W cup of tea on a coaster. It was orange pekoe, my usual morning ritual. The tea bag dipped in and out of the hot water, imparting only the faintest colour. I watched it for a moment. The liquid looked more like coloured water than tea, but the familiar routine was comforting.

I opened the laptop and began my usual sequence.

Click. Google.

Then I typed: YouTube.

A collection of videos appeared on the screen. One immediately caught my attention:

Dr. David Hinds — Politics 101: “African Guyanese Are People Too.”

The panel featured Olive Sampson, Nigel Hughes, and V. Alexander.

I clicked.

The rhythmic pulse of calypso filled the office. I settled into my chair and listened, allowing the music to draw me in. I waited for the lyrics to unfold their story, for the melody to reveal whatever message lay beneath its rhythm.

Then the images began to appear.

Maya Angelou. Barack Obama. Miriam Makeba. Walter Rodney. Eusi Kwayana. Dr. David Hinds. Martin Luther King Jr. Bob Marley. Malcolm X. Serena Williams. L. F. S. Burnham. Michelle Obama. Nelson Mandela. Dr. Letitia Wright.

A succession of figures whose lives, in different ways, had become part of the historical record. They had challenged established boundaries, overcome formidable obstacles, and left their marks on societies that had not always welcomed them. Their stories spoke of achievement, resilience, and the struggle for recognition.

Yet, as I watched, I wondered what it meant to celebrate the achievements of one people while continuing to view the aspirations of another with suspicion. Surely, recognition need not come at the expense of someone else's dignity. A society that values one community should not have to diminish another.

The discussion gathered momentum. The panelists spoke about a forum in Geneva, Switzerland, associated with the International Decade for People of African Descent, 2015–2024. The conversation turned toward race, identity, political representation, and the enduring grievances that had shaped Guyanese society.

I am reminded, two words that unsettled me from another YouTuber a few months earlier.

“Coolie Greed.”

The expression lingered in my mind. It was more than an insult directed at an individual or a community. In the context of our divided society, it carried the weight of a stereotype—a phrase capable of reducing an entire people to a single, unflattering characteristic.

I wondered how such language could contribute to the national conversation Guyana so desperately needed. What purpose did it serve to replace one racial grievance with another? We had inherited enough divisions from our colonial past without manufacturing new ones.

The moderator, measured but persistent, returned repeatedly to another word: “Gripe.” It was a reference to a letter published in the Guyana Current newspaper.

I listened closely. Beneath the exchanges, I sensed an unresolved question: how could Guyanese confront the injustices of their history without turning that history into a permanent contest between racial communities?

Then came a statement that caused me to sit forward in my chair.

“Guyana’s history did not begin in 1838.”

I paused.

The statement deserved consideration. The year 1838 is an important landmark in Guyana's history, marking the end of the apprenticeship system and the full freedom of formerly enslaved people. It also falls within the period when the first Indian indentured labourers arrived in the colony. But the history of the land stretches much further back—to its Indigenous peoples, their communities, their knowledge, and their relationship with the rivers, forests, and coastlands long before European conquest.

Nor can the story of modern Guyana be understood through a single date or the experience of one community. Our national history is a succession of encounters, struggles, migrations, and transformations. Each generation has inherited the consequences of what came before it.

As I listened to the discussion, my thoughts travelled back through the decades to British Guiana, a colony whose history had too often been interpreted through the interests of its ruling class and the prevailing values of the British Empire.

The First World War had drawn men from the colony into a wider imperial conflict. Those who returned home came back to a society in which political authority, economic opportunity, and social privilege remained concentrated in the hands of a relatively small elite. The war had changed the world, but it had not fundamentally dismantled the colonial order.

During the 1920s, Georgetown was a city of contrasts. Negroes, Mulattoes, Creoles, Europeans, Portuguese, and Indians occupied different positions within its social and economic life. Their circumstances varied, as did their opportunities, ambitions, and prospects.

Many Indians remained connected to the sugar plantations, while others moved into commerce, domestic service, transportation, and small-scale trading. The boundaries between plantation and town were becoming less rigid, although racial prejudice and class distinctions continued to influence the lives of ordinary people.

In the writings on African and diasporic history, Mulatto authors explored the experiences of peoples whose contributions to established historical narratives had often been neglected. The urban lives of Indians in British Guiana, too, formed part of a wider story of survival and adaptation: peddlers, vendors, labourers, and small traders seeking opportunities beyond the plantation system.

These people were not merely figures in a colonial economy. They were individuals attempting to build lives for themselves and their families in a society that offered unequal rewards for their labour.

At the same time, an educated Creole middle class was becoming increasingly vocal. Its members challenged aspects of colonial administration and pressed for greater participation in government. Their demands formed part of a growing movement toward constitutional reform and self-government.

Yet political change would not come easily.

The Second World War intervened, redirecting resources, delaying reforms, and binding the colony more tightly to Britain's wartime needs. The hopes of one generation were once again postponed.

When the war ended, however, British Guiana was entering a new era. Its strategic and economic importance to Britain had grown. Sugar remained central to the colonial economy, while bauxite, rice, timber, and other resources contributed to the colony's commercial value. The wealth generated by these industries sustained businesses and employment, but it also flowed outward to investors and interests beyond the colony.

The contrast was unmistakable: a land rich in resources, yet a society in which the distribution of opportunity remained deeply unequal.

By the 1950s, the signs of change were everywhere. American influence was increasingly visible in music, cinema, popular culture, and political thought. British Guiana's people were exposed to ideas and experiences beyond the limits of the colonial world. A new generation was beginning to imagine a different future.

It was against this historical background that I sought to develop the world of my novel, THE ACTIVIST.

I wanted to capture more than the dates and events of colonial history. I wanted to recover the atmosphere of a society in transition: the movement of people between villages and towns, the rhythms of railway travel, the sounds of music drifting from homes, the daily rituals of ordinary families, and the hopes of a population learning to understand itself.

To tell that story, I had to return to the beginnings of the society that emerged after emancipation.

Emancipation and the Birth of the Villages

The plantations of cotton, cocoa, coffee, and sugar established by European settlers had transformed the coastal landscape of the Wild Coast. Their fields and estates were sustained by enslaved African labour, and their profits helped shape the political and economic institutions of the colony.

Emancipation changed that order forever.

Following the abolition of slavery, freedom brought a new determination among formerly enslaved people to secure land, independence, and control over their own lives. In 1839, groups of emancipated Africans began purchasing abandoned or declining estates and converting them into villages. These acquisitions were not simply property transactions; they represented collective acts of self-determination.

The purchasers pooled their limited resources, negotiated the terms of sale, and divided the land according to the needs of their communities. Residential plots were laid out near the village fronts, while the backlands—often called the backdam—provided space for cultivation and farming.

The new villages required systems of administration. Residents organised their affairs, selected local representatives, and established rules for the management of common concerns. These arrangements developed into forms of village governance and, in time, the village council system.

The men and women who undertook this work had lived under a system in which decisions about their lives were made by others. They had observed how plantation managers exercised authority, how labour was organised, and how rules were enforced. In freedom, they adapted what they had learned to the needs of their own communities.

Their achievement was remarkable. With limited resources and little assistance from the colonial authorities, they created settlements that gave families a measure of independence and a foundation for future generations.

Emancipation did not, however, erase the inequalities of colonial society. Plantation owners retained considerable economic and political influence. Racial prejudice persisted, and access to education, employment, land, and public office remained uneven.

The colony was changing, but it was not yet a society of equals.

Its population included Indigenous peoples, formerly enslaved Africans, free people of African and mixed ancestry, Europeans, Portuguese immigrants, indentured labourers, and other communities whose lives were shaped by different histories and circumstances. Colonial law placed them within a common political framework, but it did not guarantee equal treatment or equal opportunity.

Nevertheless, the colony continued to develop. Roads, railways, river transportation, and other infrastructure gradually connected settlements that had once been separated by distance and difficult terrain. These developments altered the movement of people and goods, opened new commercial possibilities, and helped bind the scattered coastal communities into a more interconnected society.

The transformation was neither simple nor complete. It was the product of labour, enterprise, colonial investment, and the determination of people who sought better lives within a system that often restricted their ambitions.

British Guiana in the 1950s

By the middle of the twentieth century, British Guiana was no longer an isolated collection of coastal settlements. It remained a British colony, but its people were increasingly influenced by developments across the Atlantic, particularly in the United States.

American films, popular music, and radio programmes found enthusiastic audiences. English music, Hindi cinema, calypso, and the growing popularity of steel pan contributed to a distinctive cultural landscape in which different traditions lived alongside one another.

By 1950, the railway and river transport systems remained important features of everyday life. Georgetown and the surrounding districts were linked by rail, while ferries and other vessels carried passengers and goods across the colony's rivers. Buses served established roads, and the capital retained much of its distinctive wooden architecture, tree-lined avenues, and reputation as the Garden City of the Caribbean.

For those who travelled between Georgetown and the rural districts, the railway was more than a means of transportation. It was an experience in itself.

A journey from Georgetown to Rosignol could become an excursion, an adventure, and an opportunity to observe the many faces of the colony. The changing scenery revealed villages, cultivated fields, waterways, and the backlands where farmers grew crops for their families and for the market.

The 1950s carried an atmosphere of optimism for many people, although that optimism existed alongside poverty, racial tension, and the growing struggle for political power. The world was recovering from war, and British Guiana was approaching a decisive period in its movement toward self-government.

For a child growing up in those years, however, history was not experienced only through politics or constitutional debates. It was also found in the familiar sounds and sights of daily life: the arrival of a train, the whistle of a factory, the call of a vendor, a cricket match on a Sunday afternoon, or the smell of food cooking in a village kitchen.

These were the details that gave a place its character.

The Railway: A Journey Through Everyday Life

The railway was one of the most striking features of British Guiana's colonial infrastructure. The first public railway in the colony opened in 1848, connecting Georgetown with Plaisance. The line was extended eastward over subsequent decades, eventually becoming part of a wider network that served communities along the coast.

By the twentieth century, the railway was operated by the Transport and Harbours Department and had become an essential link between Georgetown and the settlements of the eastern coast. It connected people to employment, markets, schools, family, and the wider world beyond their villages.

The workforce that kept the railway operating included many men whose labour was indispensable to its daily functioning. Their duties demanded discipline, skill, and reliability. The system represented an important achievement in the organisation of colonial transportation, even as the benefits of such infrastructure remained unequally distributed.

I remember the train as a living presence in the landscape.

Its steam engine approached with a growing roar, drawing its carriages behind it and releasing thick clouds of black smoke. The smell of coal and steam mingled with the scents of the countryside. The sound announced the arrival of a familiar spectacle long before the train came into view.

Inside the carriages, passengers settled into their seats while railway employees attended to their duties. The conductor moved through the compartments, checking and clipping tickets. His starched khaki uniform and hard khaki hat gave him an air of authority. He carried himself with the discipline expected of a man responsible for maintaining order aboard the train.

At each station, railway personnel signalled the train's movements, and passengers prepared to board or disembark. Vendors gathered on the platforms, taking advantage of the brief intervals when the train stopped. Their calls competed with the hiss of escaping steam and the clatter of wheels.

The stations became places of commerce and conversation. A journey was not merely a passage between two points; it was a succession of small encounters that connected people from different communities.

Mahaica Station was especially memorable for the bustle that accompanied the arrival of the train. Vendors moved through the crowds, offering mangoes, star apples, and sapodillas to passengers leaning from open windows.

“Cheap! Cheap!” they called, hoping to catch the attention of someone eager for a taste of the season.

Amid the commotion, one vendor stood out in my memory: a tall African woman who moved gracefully along the platform, balancing a tray of food upon her head.

“Fish and bread! Get your fish and bread!”

Her voice rose above the noise, clear and rhythmic. On her tray were jill loaves, freshly fried bangamary, and a small bottle of fiery homemade pepper sauce. With practised hands, she assembled sandwiches that offered a simple but unforgettable pleasure.

Six cents bought a taste of something extraordinary.

For a hungry traveller, it was food. For a child watching the world unfold around him, it was theatre, commerce, and memory combined.

Rosignol: A Village Apart

Rosignol, the last railway stop before the ferry crossing of the Berbice River, occupied a distinctive place in my imagination. Its history was tied to the plantation system, yet the village had developed a character that belonged entirely to its own people.

It had none of the grand structures associated with some of the better-known villages along the coast. Its appeal lay elsewhere—in its landscape, its people, its everyday customs, and the relationships that held the community together.

People of African and Indian ancestry lived side by side. Their relationships were not free of the tensions that existed elsewhere in the colony, but everyday life also created opportunities for friendship, cooperation, and familiarity. Neighbours knew one another, shared experiences, and sometimes referred to one another as cousins.

Such relationships were an important part of the village's character. They reminded me that racial categories, though powerful in colonial society and later political life, could not fully describe the bonds that formed between ordinary people.

Rosignol's layout was distinctive. Rather than a conventional grid of intersecting streets, its pathways and dams led residents toward the sea, the railway, and the backlands. The surrounding farms produced crops such as bananas, ochro, plantain, and cassava, sustaining households and contributing to local trade.

Life followed a rhythm shaped by nature, work, and familiar sounds.

The first crow of a rooster announced the beginning of the day. The arrival of the train at eleven o'clock marked an important moment in the village's routine. Later, the high-pitched whistle of the Blairmont Sugar Factory signalled the progress of the working day.

These sounds were more than background noise. They were the village's informal clock, dividing the hours and reminding everyone of the activities that sustained the community.

Sunday brought a different atmosphere.

The morning was quiet, almost sacred. Sunlight spread across the village, illuminating its houses, yards, and pathways. There was a sense of stillness, as though the world had paused to allow people time for prayer, reflection, and family.

Before noon, games and loud conversation were generally set aside. The quiet was part of the village's customary respect for the Sabbath. Cricket and other recreational activities could wait until the afternoon, when the day's solemnity had given way to the pleasures of leisure.

To visitors from Georgetown, Rosignol might have seemed like little more than another stop along the railway line. To those of us who knew it as home, it was an entire world.

It was a place measured not simply by miles or timetables, but by the familiar rhythms of its people: the train arriving at the station, the scent of the Berbice River, the whistle from Blairmont, the voices of vendors, the sound of children at play, and the quiet dignity of neighbours going about their daily lives.

In its own way, Rosignol was a small paradise—not because life was free of hardship, but because its people had created a sense of belonging within the limits of their circumstances.

History, Memory, and the Nation We Inherited

As I sat in my office on that April morning, listening to the discussion about race and identity in Guyana, I found myself returning to these memories.

The words “African Guyanese Are People Too” carried an undeniable truth: every community deserves recognition, dignity, and the opportunity to participate fully in national life. But that principle cannot be confined to one group. It must extend to all Guyanese.

Our history is too complex to be reduced to competing claims of ownership, grievance, or superiority. Indigenous peoples, Africans, Indians, Portuguese, Europeans, Chinese, and the many communities that emerged from their encounters have all contributed to the making of the society we inherited. Their experiences were not identical, and their suffering and achievements should not be carelessly equated. Each deserves to be examined honestly, within its proper historical context.

The challenge is to acknowledge those differences without turning them into permanent barriers between us.

When we speak of emancipation, we must remember the determination of those who purchased villages and built new lives after slavery. When we speak of Indian indentureship, we must recognise the hardships endured by those who crossed the oceans in search of a future. When we speak of Indigenous history, we must acknowledge that the story of this land began long before the arrival of European settlers.

And when we speak of modern Guyana, we must remember the ordinary people whose work, sacrifice, and aspirations helped shape the country long before independence became a political reality.

These are not separate histories that must compete for national recognition. They are essential parts of the larger story.

That was the world I wanted to capture in THE ACTIVIST: a society shaped by colonial power, economic struggle, cultural exchange, political awakening, and the quiet resilience of ordinary people.

The past does not disappear simply because a new generation takes its place. It survives in the language we speak, the customs we practise, the prejudices we inherit, the institutions we maintain, and the stories we choose to tell.

The question is whether we will allow that inheritance to divide us indefinitely, or whether we will learn from it and build something better.

I looked again at the computer screen. The discussion continued, but my thoughts had travelled far beyond the office—to the railway platforms, the villages, the plantations, and the people whose lives had become part of my memory.

The tea in my cup had cooled.

Outside, the day continued as usual. Inside, I was reminded of a responsibility that had followed me through the years: to record the past as faithfully as I could, to question the assumptions that shaped our understanding of it, and to insist that the dignity of one Guyanese must never depend on the humiliation of another.

A nation cannot change its history. But it can change the way it understands that history—and what it chooses to do with the lessons it contains. 

 

JUNE 17, 1948 - ON THE ROAD TO LE REPENTIR CEMETERY

 The procession begins moving again.

The pace slows. Only a short distance remains to the neighbouring village.

EXT. BUXTON VILLAGE – DAY

Houses line both sides of the public road.

The people of Buxton have heard that the procession is coming.

The village is alive with anticipation.

Men gather along the roadside.

Women stand on verandahs.

Children climb onto fences for a better view.

The distant sound of the procession approaches.

THUD.

THUD.

THUD.

The first mourners appear.

Then more.

And more.

BUXTON MEN step forward from the roadside.

Among them are PROMINENT VILLAGERS—respected elders, community leaders, teachers, shopkeepers, and representatives of the village.

They remove their hats.

An ELDERLY VILLAGER steps into the road.

He looks toward the approaching coffins.

His eyes fill with tears.

ELDER
Let them pass.

The crowd parts.

The FIVE COFFINS enter Buxton.

The villagers join the procession, one after another.

SYDNEY KING steps into the leading group.

More villagers follow until the Buxton contingent becomes part of the procession.

EXT. BUXTON MAIN ROAD – CONTINUOUS

A procession of Indians and Negroes—men, women, and children—moves through the village.

EXT. EAST COAST MAIN ROAD – DAY

The procession moves westward.

The road has become a human river.

Men walk in front.

Women follow.

Children cling to their mothers.

Workers from neighbouring plantations join the march.

From every Logie Settlement along the route, PEOPLE COME OUT.

They stand on the parapets.

They stand in their yards.

They stand beneath coconut palms.

They gather beside rum shops and small wooden houses.

They watch.

Faces marked by sadness.

Men clutch shovels, cutlasses, and forks.

No one works as the procession passes.

A FARMER slowly removes his hat.

A woman places her hand against her heart.

An old man bows his head.

A group of schoolchildren stand in silence.

The five coffins pass.

The children watch them disappear down the road.

THE SAGE OF BUXTON

 

Sydney King: A Moment in History, an excerpt from my Book. A Century Old, God Bless.

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE APPEAL.

An appeal to the villagers of Buxton.

I first heard the name Buxton in 1952, when I was just seven years old. Most children do not recall the first time they become aware of place names, but Buxton imprinted itself in my memory, standing apart like a landmark in time.

It was an era of political awakening—a time when British Guiana stirred restlessly toward self-rule. The air crackled with the fervor of change as men took to makeshift stages, their voices rising in fiery oratory, pleading for a future beyond colonial rule. At the heart of this movement in Rosignol stood Sydney Madray Kuttain, a tireless activist for the People’s Progressive Party. It was he who orchestrated the political meetings at the Rosignol Society Hall, where crowds gathered in restless anticipation, spilling beyond the wooden walls and onto the public road.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness encroached, the hall came alive under the glow of a Petromax gas lamp. I remember it well—for I was there, a boy carrying a tray laden with sandwiches and beverages, walking beside my childhood friend, the son of S.M. Kuttain, who bore the lamp. Together, we entered the hall, placing our burdens on a table in the corner, just by the stage.

And then, a voice—a commanding, impassioned voice—cut through the room. It exalted, pleaded, demanded action in the approaching 1953 elections. I looked up, transfixed. The voice belonged to a man whose name would never leave me. The murmurs around me spoke of him—Sydney King, from the village of Buxton.

Years passed, and his name transformed, as did the country. I read his letters in the Stabroek News, following his words as he evolved into Eusi Kwayana, a figure unwavering in his convictions. The image of that night at the Rosignol Society Hall never faded—of the young man in white, a beacon in the dimly lit room, his presence etched into my consciousness.

One day, I responded to one of his letters. He warned of troubled times ahead, and I answered with an offering—I would walk the coastlands with him, step by step, to tell the people of the dangers looming over our nation.

Now, decades later, I return to that memory, to that moment when history and destiny intertwined.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r7f_4EyI0Qk

 

RESPONSE to DR. VISHNU BISRAM.

 ON THE SACRED RIVERS

The Untold Journey from Indenture to Abolition, 1838–1917

On the Sacred Rivers traces the history of Indian indentureship from its beginnings in the aftermath of the abolition of slavery in the British Empire to the eventual ending of the system of indentured recruitment in 1917.

Beginning in 1838, the book follows the movement of Indian men and women from the villages and towns of India across the oceans to the sugar plantations of British Guiana and other British colonies. It examines how a system presented by colonial authorities as a legitimate labour arrangement developed into a harsh form of bound labour that critics increasingly compared with slavery.

At the heart of the book is the human story. These were not simply statistics or anonymous workers transported across the seas. They were people with families, caste identities, religious traditions, hopes and fears who left the banks of India's sacred rivers for an uncertain future in distant colonies.

On the Sacred Rivers also challenges the simplified version of the abolition story in which the campaign begins and ends with Mahatma Gandhi. Gandhi eventually became a powerful voice against indentureship, particularly during the crucial years immediately preceding abolition. In 1917 he described the system as a form of "temporary slavery" and argued that it could not simply be reformed—it had to end.

But the struggle had a much longer history.

The book brings attention to the experiences and resistance of indentured workers themselves, including the courageous story of Kunti, whose experience in Fiji in 1913 became an important symbol in the campaign against the treatment of indentured women. Historical scholarship records how Kunti's ordeal helped galvanize opposition to the system in India.

It also examines the remarkable contribution of Totaram Sanadhya, himself a former indentured labourer in Fiji. His testimony and writings helped expose the reality of indentureship to audiences in India and contributed to the growing campaign for its abolition.

This is important because the abolition of indentureship was not the achievement of one individual. It was the culmination of decades of suffering, testimony, protest, investigation, journalism, political agitation and resistance by indentured people and their advocates.

The book therefore asks a fundamental historical question:

Who should receive recognition for ending Indian indentureship?

Rather than placing the entire story at the feet of one celebrated leader, On the Sacred Rivers reconstructs the long road to abolition—from the first arrivals in 1838, through the development of the plantation system, the experiences of men and women under indenture, the growing resistance to recruitment, the testimony of former labourers, and the campaigns that eventually forced the British and Indian governments to act.

By 1917, the Government of India suspended the recruitment of Indian indentured labour. The remaining contracts in some colonies continued for a period afterward—for example, Fiji's existing indentures were formally cancelled in 1920—so the distinction between the end of recruitment in 1917 and the final ending of existing contracts is historically important.

On the Sacred Rivers is ultimately more than a history of labour migration. It is a history of human dignity.

It connects the villages of India with the plantations of the Caribbean, Africa and the Pacific and shows how the experiences of indentured Indians helped create new communities and identities throughout the Indian diaspora.

The title itself carries a deeper meaning. The rivers of India—the Ganges, Yamuna and other sacred waterways—represent the civilization, memories and traditions from which these migrants came. They crossed the kala pani, leaving those rivers behind, yet carried their culture, faith, languages and memories with them to new shores.

From 1838 to 1917, On the Sacred Rivers follows that extraordinary journey: from recruitment to resistance, from suffering to political awakening, and ultimately from indentureship to freedom.

It is a story that belongs not only to India, but also to Guyana and the wider Caribbean, Africa, Fiji and the global Indian diaspora.

Most importantly, it restores the indentured labourer—not the colonial administrator, plantation owner or political celebrity—to the centre of the story.