LIFE IS A JOURNEY
Every human life is a journey,
one always different from the other,
'tis sometimes smooth or without clarity
resulting always from the desire of the traveller.
But that journey possesses nurture
by the traveller who sets the goal
within consciousness or not to deliver
either love or hatred in its soul.
Every family is influenced by that journey
presupposing or not its progress or retrogress,
constantly defining the status of the society
in which the travel takes place in earnest.
The quality of the experience on that journey
determines the health of the traveller
in consort with others of similar proclivity
to aid or destroy the essence of the community's agenda.
The main driver in that journey
is the person who undertakes the trip
with clear or hazy insight of certainity
arriving at the destination with glee or sadness of grip.
So how is your life's journey going?
Did you plan in advance to undertake it?
Have the desired outcomes come with travelling?
Were the destinations of predetermined benefit?
Remember always to make your life,
into a clear and consciously planned journey
that demands your attention always rife
with a forethought of sound judgement and without
cause to worry.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Monday, September 29, 2008
"The Ole Higue" By Rosaliene Bacchus
On a bright Saturday morning, I shouldn’t be chasing a cricket ball in the neighbor’s yard. This happens when you have a little brother like Sammy. He’s worse than a male mosquito.
“You do this on purpose.” I want to clobber him. “Granny say Missis Withers is an Ole Higue. She suck her husband ‘til he dead. She going suck you too.”
“Daddy say is not true,” says Sammy. “Ole Higue is only old people story. To frighten lil children.”
“Is that so? Keep pestering Missis Withers. You going find out if is for true or not.”
I march over to the Ole Higue’s house at the street corner. Sammy lags behind.
“I got better things to do than go after your stupid cricket ball.”
“Like kissing that smiley-face tall boy?
I turn around and glare at him. “You spying on me now?”
We pass the Ole Higue’s dense five-foot high red hibiscus hedge. No one uses the padlocked gate to the sun-beaten, water-worn front staircase. We turn the corner to the side of the house. A thick metal chain secures the corroding wrought iron driveway gate. The Ole Higue’s hearse waits under the house. The graying-white colonial-style wood house looms above us. It stands on eight robust ten-foot stilts like a giant black widow spider. Dark curtains trap the sunbeams piercing the glass windows.
I move towards the small service gate on the right. Sammy clutches my skirt; he hunches by my side. I shake the rusty bell. A young man, the Ole Higue’s grandson, sticks his head out a window overhead. His oily black hair gleams in the sunlight.
“Is what you all want?”
“My brother’s cricket ball fall in your backyard. We can go in the yard and get it?”
The Ole Higue’s head pops out another window. Her long plaited black hair brushes the window sill. Sammy twitches by my side. “Me not stupidy. You lil wiry brother only after me mangoes.” The dark eyes in the emaciated face hurls balls of fire at Sammy. He grabs my hand and glues to my side.
“Missis Withers, your grandson can look for the ball then?”
“Me tell you already, young lady. What in me yard is me own. Tell you big-eye brother to stop throwing things in me yard.” The Ole Higue and her grandson disappear inside the belly of the black widow spider.
“Don’t look at me with a long face. I promised to try. I didn’t promise to get your ball back.”
We return home. I can tell that Sammy is up to more tricks. I shove him in his back. “Sammy! No more tricks. You hear me? Or the Ole Higue going come and suck you.” I open our gate. He bolts into our yard as if the landlord’s two black Dobermans are after him. Cocoa barks from his kennel under the front staircase. He’s a big, sleek, cocoa-brown, mixed-breed dog. He belongs to the family in the downstairs flat. Since the day he attacked the postman, they keep Cocoa locked up during the daytime.
I take a deep breath and exhale. I hate talking to Mrs. Withers. A cockroach-crawly-feeling runs down my spine. She cursed us from the first day we moved in next door. Our modern two-flat, pink and white concrete residence must be blight to her. Everything that lands in her yard is gone forever. Dad can’t enjoy his Saturday-night barbecues with his friends. She calls the police to complain about the noise.
Without Sammy, the Ole Higue wouldn’t even know I exist. He’s always losing things in her yard. Her mango tree lures him. From our dining room window on the top flat, he counts the orange-red fruits hanging on the tree. It’s not easy for a sixteen-year-old girl like me to deal with a seven-year-old brother. He brings out the worse in me. Granny said I got the face of an angel but the heart of the devil.
“He’s a handful,” Mom said to the landlady the other day. Sammy had somehow managed to break the landlady’s crystal vase. She kept it on a side table in her living room. Sammy goes over often to their house. He plays video game with her young son. “Zina never give me so much trouble when she was small,” Mom said. “I ain’t got energy to keep up with him.”
Mom figures I got the energy to handle Sammy. Besides finding and catching him, I make sure he bathes, eats his food, does his homework, and brushes his teeth. I’m now Optimus Prime. One o’ clock can’t come fast enough for me. Mom and Dad will be home from work. Saturday afternoon is my time off. It’s my time to spend with my friends. No Megatron. No Ole Higue to suck my energies.
******
Saturday night, after 8:00 p.m. I’m in our study-room, chatting with my girlfriends online. Sammy is in the living room on his Playstation2. He’s fighting the Decepticons on Planet Cyberton. Don’t ask me what he sees in that silly Transformers video game. But the game keeps him in one place for half-an-hour. The Transformers movie is another thing. That is non-stop action. And the main star is real cute.
Mom appears in the open doorway. She is dressed up in her new glittery tight-fitting red dress with fine straps. She looks real chick and curvaceous. She promised to let me wear her dress to my best friend’s birthday. Mom and Dad are going to the Pegasus Poolside for a wedding-anniversary celebration with some friends. Open air, candle lights, barbecue, and live music. I’m stuck at home. Babysitting Sammy.
“Zina, I don’t want you and Sammy fighting again,” says Mom. “You hear me, Sammy? No fighting.”
“She the one who start it, Mommy.”
“Sammy!” says Dad from the living room. “You gotta listen to your big sister.”
“Okaaay, dad. I going behave.”
I follow Mom and Dad to the front door. After they drive off, I lock the door. Time to lock up. No thief-man is going to get in. I close and bolt the sitting room windows. Before closing the dining room window, I glance at the Ole Higue’s house. A light is visible in one of the bedrooms. The mango tree stands guard in the gloom of the street light. I turn off all overhead florescent lights. I check the latches on the back door. The high windows in the kitchen, toilet and bathroom are secure. I leave on the table lamp in the living room.
Sammy is still waging war with Megatron. Duhduh-duhduh-duhduh. The sound of Megatron’s arm-mounted fusion cannon echoes in every room. Sammy and I share the front bedroom, near to the L-shaped living room. Our study-room occupies the middle bedroom. It opens into the dining room. Mom and Dad sleep in the back bedroom, close to the bathroom and kitchen.
I settle down again at the computer. The Guyana Forum awaits me. Yesterday, HeartBreakKid complained he could not find a girl with a good personality. BrownSugar responded: “Maybe you are looking in the wrong places.” Registered as AngelFace, I add my comment: “I got a similar problem. The boys in my class are too childish and boring.”
Over half-hour elapses before I notice the recurring sound of the ‘Game Over.’ The living room is now in darkness. Sammy is up to mischief again. I tiptoe to the open door and slip out. Sammy is out-of-sight. I peep over the four-foot high divider between the dining room and living room. Sammy is standing at the window near the divider-wall. I sneak up behind him.
“What you doing, Sammy?” He jumps back, almost hitting me over.
He whips round to face me. He’s hiding something in his left hand. “I not doing nothing. I just looking out the window.”
“Let me see what you got in your hand.” He opens his hand to reveal several small white balls. About the size of genips. I snatch them from his hand. “They wet! What’s this?”
“Is just toilet-paper.”
“You soak toilet paper and make it into balls?... Sammy? What you been up to?
“Nothing. I ain’t do nothing.”
I lean out the window. Light from the downstairs window brightens the concrete yard. I don’t see any toilet-paper balls. I let the curtain fall and turn back to Sammy. “Don’t tell me you throw them balls in the Ole Higue’s yard?”
“She take my cricket ball.”
“So you think it right for you to dirty her yard with toilet paper?”
“No.” Sammy looks down at the floor.
“The Ole Higue should suck you dry.”
“I not frighten of the Ole Higue. She can’t catch me.”
“Yeah? Is who hide behind my skirt this morning?”
“Don’t tell Mommy and Daddy.”
“If you go to bed now, I not going tell them.”
Sammy brushes his teeth and changes into his pajamas. He settles in his bed on the bottom bunk. “You promise not to tell?”
“Yeah, I promise. Now go to sleep.”
Sammy hugs his green stuffed frog, puts his right thumb in his mouth, and is soon out like a light bulb. I wish I could fall asleep so fast. Before my brain shuts down, it has to process everything that happened during the day.
******
On Sunday morning, I awake around eight o’clock. I climb down from the top bunk. Sammy is still asleep. I open our bedroom door and head for the toilet. I return to our bedroom and make up my bed. Sammy rolls over in his bed, exposing a bloodstain on his white pillowcase.
“Sammy.” I shake him awake. “What happen, Sammy? Blood on your pillow. You cut yourself?”
“Blood?” Sammy sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes. “Where?” He turns towards me. “What you staring at?”
“You got blood on your pajamas, too.”
Sammy gazes at the bloodstain on his pillow. I sit down on his bed and examine his face, mouth and neck. I find a tiny red mark on the right side of his neck. It looks like a mosquito bite. I unbutton his pajama jacket. No cuts or marks on his chest and back. I get up and go to Mom’s bedroom. I knock on the door.
“Mom… Dad… Something happen to Sammy. He got blood on his pajamas and pillowcase.”
Mom appears. She buttons her housecoat. I follow her to our bedroom. Sammy is still sitting in bed with his finger in his mouth. Mom examines Sammy, the pillow and bed sheets. She touches the tiny blood mark on his neck. “Zina, you sure you and Sammy didn’t get into a fight last night?”
“No, Mom! You think I would lie about something like this? He stay up ‘til 9 o’clock playing video games, then I put him to bed.”
Mom returns to her bedroom to wake Dad.
“Must be a vampire bat,” says Dad. He fingers the mark on Sammy’s neck. “Mosquito don’t leave bloodstains like these.”
“But the bedroom door and windows were closed,” says Mom.
“Then it got to be hiding somewhere in this room,” says Dad.
“Sammy, go lie down on the sofa while we search your room,” says Mom.
Sammy leaves the bedroom, clutching his green frog. Not at all like Sammy to do as he’s told without an argument.
“Zina, you stay and help,” says Mom.
“Ugh,” I make a face. “I hate bats.”
“Help me remove the bedsheets,” she says.
We remove the bed sheets and pillow cases. We shake everything. Dad checks under the mattresses. I drag our shoes from under the bed and bang them on the floor. Thank goodness! No vampire bat hanging under the bed.
Dad opens our wardrobe. As usual, Sammy had left the door ajar. Mom removes the hangers with our clothes, one by one. I lay them out on my bed. Dad peers inside the empty wardrobe. He jerks the wardrobe from against the wall and inspects the back. No vampire bat.
“Zina, bring the stepping stool,” says Dad. He sees no bat from his perch on top of the stool.
The bottom drawer of our chest-of-drawers hangs open. It’s Sammy’s drawer—where he hides all his junk. As Dad removes the four drawers, I edge to the open doorway. I’m ready for a fast getaway. No bat is going to collide with my face. I find Sammy standing near the door. Mom goes through the clothes in each drawer. Dad inspects the empty chest. No ugly bat. He pulls the chest from against the wall. Nothing clings to the back.
Our bedroom is now a mess. Mom sits on Sammy’s bed. Dad stands in the middle of the room. Sammy and I remain in the doorway.
“I don’t understand what happen,” Mom tells Dad. “If is not a vampire bat, what cause the bleeding?”
I hold Sammy’s hand and pull him to the kitchen. “Sammy, if you didn’t cut yourself, if a vampire bat didn’t bite you, then it must b–“
“The Ole Higue,” whispers Sammy. “Don’t tell Mommy and Daddy ‘bout the toilet-paper balls. You promised. I going get ban again from playing video games.”
“So what we going do now?” I say.
“Let we call Granny and ask she what to do.”
“No, she going want to know what happen. Let we search on the internet.”
“What the two of you whispering about?” Sammy jumps at the sound of Mom’s voice.
“I just telling Sammy he gotta help me tidy up our bedroom.”
“That’s a good idea,” says Mom. “Zina, when you change your sleeping clothes, come help me make breakfast.”
“Come Sammy,” says Dad. “Let we make sure you ain’t get bite anywhere else.”
After breakfast, Mom washes up the dishes. Sammy helps me to tidy our room. Later, in the study-room, Sammy sits on my left in front of the computer monitor. I google the words ‘Ole Higue.’
Sammy fidgets in his chair. “Anything yet?”
“The Dictionary of Jamaica English say the Ole Higue is a witch who could take off her skin and fly at night to suck people’s blood, especially babies.”
“What they say we gotta do to stop the Ole Higue from sucking my blood?”
“They only mention a blue cross to use on the ninth day after a baby born. This not going work for you.”
“What else they say?”
“Here’s more.” I click on the link for the Dictionary of Caribbean English Usage.
“What it say?” Sammy leans forward, squinting at the screen “The writing too fine to read.”
“In the countryside various fetishes are still used to keep Old Higue away.”
“What is fetishes?”
“Must be things that protect you from the Ole Higue…” I continue reading out loud: “‘Guards might be fitted round the children’s neck, a cube of blue hung over a doorway or chalk marks made on the stairs.’”
“I can get chalk from Charlie downstairs,” says Sammy.
“Hey, Sammy, they mention Guyana. ‘There is a folk legend in Guyana about an evil spirit that sheds her skin and takes the form of a ball of fire or some such, and then sucks the blood of the living.’”
“How she turn into a ball-of-fire?” says Sammy.
“How I must know? Stay quiet. Let me read… On April 28, 2007 a group of villagers in Bare Root, East Coast Demerara, beat a woman to death. They thought she was an Old Higue. They throw rice around her.”
“Mommy got plenty rice. She won’t miss it,” says Sammy. “It say where we got to put the rice?”
“Yeah, we gotta put a heap of raw rice near the foot of our bed. The Old Higue gotta count the grains of rice. While she counting the rice, we can sneak out of bed and call Dad.”
“Then Daddy can beat she with the pointer-broom,” says Sammy.
******
Sunday evening. Mom and Dad are watching TV. Sammy and I are on the back landing. We draw a chalk line along the bottom of the back door. We draw another line along the bottom of the front door. For extra protection, we mark each door with a large cross.
At bedtime, after Dad turns off all the lights, Sammy and I get to work. With light from Sammy’s flashlight, we place small piles of rice at each bed-foot. I climb up onto the top bunk.
“You can sleep in my bed tonight?” says Sammy.
I’m glad he asked. I don’t want to sleep alone tonight. I take my pillow and join him on the bottom bunk. Sammy covers me with his sheet. I hide the flashlight under my pillow. Sammy snuggles up under my left arm like he did when he was a baby. I hug him to my chest. Tonight, no Ole Higue is going to suck my brother’s blood.
“What we going do if the chalk lines and rice don’t work,” says Sammy.
“I going stay awake and start screaming when I see she.”
My brother struggles to stay awake with me. But within half-hour, he falls asleep. I keep watch in the shadowy room. My body stiffens at the slightest noise. Men walk by on the street. Cocoa barks from the front gate. They curse him. The landlord’s Dobermans bark and growl. A cat hisses. Cocoa runs up our front stairs. During the night, he lies on the landing. Mom complains all the time about the stink dog smell on her doorstep. She’s asked Dad umpteen times to build a gate at the top of the landing to keep the dog out. I suppose it gives Cocoa a good view of our yard. According to Sammy: “He pick up scent better from high up.” I don’t care about these things. But tonight, it’s good to know that Cocoa is on guard. He’ll bark when the Ole Higue appears. He’ll take a chunk of her flesh like he did with the postman.
Cocoa barks. My brain comes alive. It’s after midnight. I must have dozed off. A mango falls from the Ole Higue’s tree. I hug my brother. Cocoa growls. My muscles tense. I tighten my grip on Sammy. I pull out the flashlight from under my pillow. I flick the switch and beam the light around the bedroom. Cocoa moans. Silence. I wait. My body is so rigid, I can’t move. No ball of fire appears. No skinless, raw flesh apparition. I wait. I survey the room. All is still. Cocoa must be asleep. I should get some sleep too. I listen to Sammy’s slow rhythmic breathing. I feel the gentle heaving against my chest. It’s the last thing I remember. Sleep conquers me; it carries me off to the belly of the black widow spider.
Monday morning. Our weekend break is over. It’s back to school again. The Ole Higue is not in our bedroom counting the rice grains. There’s no blood on Sammy’s neck, pajamas or pillowcase. Sammy and I hug each other. The Ole Higue could not come near us. We are safe.
“The chalk marks work,” says Sammy. “Is true what they say: Ole Higue can’t cross the chalk line.”
Sammy and I get ready for school and have breakfast. I help Sammy to pack his school bag. Mom sits at her dressing table, putting on make-up.
“If you all want a lift to school, you better get moving,” says Dad. “I going downstairs to warm up the old Ford.” Dad opens the front door. “Zina! Sammy! Come here quick!”
I freeze. Sammy and I stare at each other. Sammy rushes to the front door. I follow.
Dad stands in the open doorway. “Is who would do a thing like this?”
Someone had moved our doormat to the center of the landing. Cocoa lies on top of the doormat. His head rests in a pool of blood. Toilet-paper balls adorn his lifeless form like a corpse prepared for the pyre.
I reach out and squeeze Sammy’s hand.
“You do this on purpose.” I want to clobber him. “Granny say Missis Withers is an Ole Higue. She suck her husband ‘til he dead. She going suck you too.”
“Daddy say is not true,” says Sammy. “Ole Higue is only old people story. To frighten lil children.”
“Is that so? Keep pestering Missis Withers. You going find out if is for true or not.”
I march over to the Ole Higue’s house at the street corner. Sammy lags behind.
“I got better things to do than go after your stupid cricket ball.”
“Like kissing that smiley-face tall boy?
I turn around and glare at him. “You spying on me now?”
We pass the Ole Higue’s dense five-foot high red hibiscus hedge. No one uses the padlocked gate to the sun-beaten, water-worn front staircase. We turn the corner to the side of the house. A thick metal chain secures the corroding wrought iron driveway gate. The Ole Higue’s hearse waits under the house. The graying-white colonial-style wood house looms above us. It stands on eight robust ten-foot stilts like a giant black widow spider. Dark curtains trap the sunbeams piercing the glass windows.
I move towards the small service gate on the right. Sammy clutches my skirt; he hunches by my side. I shake the rusty bell. A young man, the Ole Higue’s grandson, sticks his head out a window overhead. His oily black hair gleams in the sunlight.
“Is what you all want?”
“My brother’s cricket ball fall in your backyard. We can go in the yard and get it?”
The Ole Higue’s head pops out another window. Her long plaited black hair brushes the window sill. Sammy twitches by my side. “Me not stupidy. You lil wiry brother only after me mangoes.” The dark eyes in the emaciated face hurls balls of fire at Sammy. He grabs my hand and glues to my side.
“Missis Withers, your grandson can look for the ball then?”
“Me tell you already, young lady. What in me yard is me own. Tell you big-eye brother to stop throwing things in me yard.” The Ole Higue and her grandson disappear inside the belly of the black widow spider.
“Don’t look at me with a long face. I promised to try. I didn’t promise to get your ball back.”
We return home. I can tell that Sammy is up to more tricks. I shove him in his back. “Sammy! No more tricks. You hear me? Or the Ole Higue going come and suck you.” I open our gate. He bolts into our yard as if the landlord’s two black Dobermans are after him. Cocoa barks from his kennel under the front staircase. He’s a big, sleek, cocoa-brown, mixed-breed dog. He belongs to the family in the downstairs flat. Since the day he attacked the postman, they keep Cocoa locked up during the daytime.
I take a deep breath and exhale. I hate talking to Mrs. Withers. A cockroach-crawly-feeling runs down my spine. She cursed us from the first day we moved in next door. Our modern two-flat, pink and white concrete residence must be blight to her. Everything that lands in her yard is gone forever. Dad can’t enjoy his Saturday-night barbecues with his friends. She calls the police to complain about the noise.
Without Sammy, the Ole Higue wouldn’t even know I exist. He’s always losing things in her yard. Her mango tree lures him. From our dining room window on the top flat, he counts the orange-red fruits hanging on the tree. It’s not easy for a sixteen-year-old girl like me to deal with a seven-year-old brother. He brings out the worse in me. Granny said I got the face of an angel but the heart of the devil.
“He’s a handful,” Mom said to the landlady the other day. Sammy had somehow managed to break the landlady’s crystal vase. She kept it on a side table in her living room. Sammy goes over often to their house. He plays video game with her young son. “Zina never give me so much trouble when she was small,” Mom said. “I ain’t got energy to keep up with him.”
Mom figures I got the energy to handle Sammy. Besides finding and catching him, I make sure he bathes, eats his food, does his homework, and brushes his teeth. I’m now Optimus Prime. One o’ clock can’t come fast enough for me. Mom and Dad will be home from work. Saturday afternoon is my time off. It’s my time to spend with my friends. No Megatron. No Ole Higue to suck my energies.
******
Saturday night, after 8:00 p.m. I’m in our study-room, chatting with my girlfriends online. Sammy is in the living room on his Playstation2. He’s fighting the Decepticons on Planet Cyberton. Don’t ask me what he sees in that silly Transformers video game. But the game keeps him in one place for half-an-hour. The Transformers movie is another thing. That is non-stop action. And the main star is real cute.
Mom appears in the open doorway. She is dressed up in her new glittery tight-fitting red dress with fine straps. She looks real chick and curvaceous. She promised to let me wear her dress to my best friend’s birthday. Mom and Dad are going to the Pegasus Poolside for a wedding-anniversary celebration with some friends. Open air, candle lights, barbecue, and live music. I’m stuck at home. Babysitting Sammy.
“Zina, I don’t want you and Sammy fighting again,” says Mom. “You hear me, Sammy? No fighting.”
“She the one who start it, Mommy.”
“Sammy!” says Dad from the living room. “You gotta listen to your big sister.”
“Okaaay, dad. I going behave.”
I follow Mom and Dad to the front door. After they drive off, I lock the door. Time to lock up. No thief-man is going to get in. I close and bolt the sitting room windows. Before closing the dining room window, I glance at the Ole Higue’s house. A light is visible in one of the bedrooms. The mango tree stands guard in the gloom of the street light. I turn off all overhead florescent lights. I check the latches on the back door. The high windows in the kitchen, toilet and bathroom are secure. I leave on the table lamp in the living room.
Sammy is still waging war with Megatron. Duhduh-duhduh-duhduh. The sound of Megatron’s arm-mounted fusion cannon echoes in every room. Sammy and I share the front bedroom, near to the L-shaped living room. Our study-room occupies the middle bedroom. It opens into the dining room. Mom and Dad sleep in the back bedroom, close to the bathroom and kitchen.
I settle down again at the computer. The Guyana Forum awaits me. Yesterday, HeartBreakKid complained he could not find a girl with a good personality. BrownSugar responded: “Maybe you are looking in the wrong places.” Registered as AngelFace, I add my comment: “I got a similar problem. The boys in my class are too childish and boring.”
Over half-hour elapses before I notice the recurring sound of the ‘Game Over.’ The living room is now in darkness. Sammy is up to mischief again. I tiptoe to the open door and slip out. Sammy is out-of-sight. I peep over the four-foot high divider between the dining room and living room. Sammy is standing at the window near the divider-wall. I sneak up behind him.
“What you doing, Sammy?” He jumps back, almost hitting me over.
He whips round to face me. He’s hiding something in his left hand. “I not doing nothing. I just looking out the window.”
“Let me see what you got in your hand.” He opens his hand to reveal several small white balls. About the size of genips. I snatch them from his hand. “They wet! What’s this?”
“Is just toilet-paper.”
“You soak toilet paper and make it into balls?... Sammy? What you been up to?
“Nothing. I ain’t do nothing.”
I lean out the window. Light from the downstairs window brightens the concrete yard. I don’t see any toilet-paper balls. I let the curtain fall and turn back to Sammy. “Don’t tell me you throw them balls in the Ole Higue’s yard?”
“She take my cricket ball.”
“So you think it right for you to dirty her yard with toilet paper?”
“No.” Sammy looks down at the floor.
“The Ole Higue should suck you dry.”
“I not frighten of the Ole Higue. She can’t catch me.”
“Yeah? Is who hide behind my skirt this morning?”
“Don’t tell Mommy and Daddy.”
“If you go to bed now, I not going tell them.”
Sammy brushes his teeth and changes into his pajamas. He settles in his bed on the bottom bunk. “You promise not to tell?”
“Yeah, I promise. Now go to sleep.”
Sammy hugs his green stuffed frog, puts his right thumb in his mouth, and is soon out like a light bulb. I wish I could fall asleep so fast. Before my brain shuts down, it has to process everything that happened during the day.
******
On Sunday morning, I awake around eight o’clock. I climb down from the top bunk. Sammy is still asleep. I open our bedroom door and head for the toilet. I return to our bedroom and make up my bed. Sammy rolls over in his bed, exposing a bloodstain on his white pillowcase.
“Sammy.” I shake him awake. “What happen, Sammy? Blood on your pillow. You cut yourself?”
“Blood?” Sammy sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes. “Where?” He turns towards me. “What you staring at?”
“You got blood on your pajamas, too.”
Sammy gazes at the bloodstain on his pillow. I sit down on his bed and examine his face, mouth and neck. I find a tiny red mark on the right side of his neck. It looks like a mosquito bite. I unbutton his pajama jacket. No cuts or marks on his chest and back. I get up and go to Mom’s bedroom. I knock on the door.
“Mom… Dad… Something happen to Sammy. He got blood on his pajamas and pillowcase.”
Mom appears. She buttons her housecoat. I follow her to our bedroom. Sammy is still sitting in bed with his finger in his mouth. Mom examines Sammy, the pillow and bed sheets. She touches the tiny blood mark on his neck. “Zina, you sure you and Sammy didn’t get into a fight last night?”
“No, Mom! You think I would lie about something like this? He stay up ‘til 9 o’clock playing video games, then I put him to bed.”
Mom returns to her bedroom to wake Dad.
“Must be a vampire bat,” says Dad. He fingers the mark on Sammy’s neck. “Mosquito don’t leave bloodstains like these.”
“But the bedroom door and windows were closed,” says Mom.
“Then it got to be hiding somewhere in this room,” says Dad.
“Sammy, go lie down on the sofa while we search your room,” says Mom.
Sammy leaves the bedroom, clutching his green frog. Not at all like Sammy to do as he’s told without an argument.
“Zina, you stay and help,” says Mom.
“Ugh,” I make a face. “I hate bats.”
“Help me remove the bedsheets,” she says.
We remove the bed sheets and pillow cases. We shake everything. Dad checks under the mattresses. I drag our shoes from under the bed and bang them on the floor. Thank goodness! No vampire bat hanging under the bed.
Dad opens our wardrobe. As usual, Sammy had left the door ajar. Mom removes the hangers with our clothes, one by one. I lay them out on my bed. Dad peers inside the empty wardrobe. He jerks the wardrobe from against the wall and inspects the back. No vampire bat.
“Zina, bring the stepping stool,” says Dad. He sees no bat from his perch on top of the stool.
The bottom drawer of our chest-of-drawers hangs open. It’s Sammy’s drawer—where he hides all his junk. As Dad removes the four drawers, I edge to the open doorway. I’m ready for a fast getaway. No bat is going to collide with my face. I find Sammy standing near the door. Mom goes through the clothes in each drawer. Dad inspects the empty chest. No ugly bat. He pulls the chest from against the wall. Nothing clings to the back.
Our bedroom is now a mess. Mom sits on Sammy’s bed. Dad stands in the middle of the room. Sammy and I remain in the doorway.
“I don’t understand what happen,” Mom tells Dad. “If is not a vampire bat, what cause the bleeding?”
I hold Sammy’s hand and pull him to the kitchen. “Sammy, if you didn’t cut yourself, if a vampire bat didn’t bite you, then it must b–“
“The Ole Higue,” whispers Sammy. “Don’t tell Mommy and Daddy ‘bout the toilet-paper balls. You promised. I going get ban again from playing video games.”
“So what we going do now?” I say.
“Let we call Granny and ask she what to do.”
“No, she going want to know what happen. Let we search on the internet.”
“What the two of you whispering about?” Sammy jumps at the sound of Mom’s voice.
“I just telling Sammy he gotta help me tidy up our bedroom.”
“That’s a good idea,” says Mom. “Zina, when you change your sleeping clothes, come help me make breakfast.”
“Come Sammy,” says Dad. “Let we make sure you ain’t get bite anywhere else.”
After breakfast, Mom washes up the dishes. Sammy helps me to tidy our room. Later, in the study-room, Sammy sits on my left in front of the computer monitor. I google the words ‘Ole Higue.’
Sammy fidgets in his chair. “Anything yet?”
“The Dictionary of Jamaica English say the Ole Higue is a witch who could take off her skin and fly at night to suck people’s blood, especially babies.”
“What they say we gotta do to stop the Ole Higue from sucking my blood?”
“They only mention a blue cross to use on the ninth day after a baby born. This not going work for you.”
“What else they say?”
“Here’s more.” I click on the link for the Dictionary of Caribbean English Usage.
“What it say?” Sammy leans forward, squinting at the screen “The writing too fine to read.”
“In the countryside various fetishes are still used to keep Old Higue away.”
“What is fetishes?”
“Must be things that protect you from the Ole Higue…” I continue reading out loud: “‘Guards might be fitted round the children’s neck, a cube of blue hung over a doorway or chalk marks made on the stairs.’”
“I can get chalk from Charlie downstairs,” says Sammy.
“Hey, Sammy, they mention Guyana. ‘There is a folk legend in Guyana about an evil spirit that sheds her skin and takes the form of a ball of fire or some such, and then sucks the blood of the living.’”
“How she turn into a ball-of-fire?” says Sammy.
“How I must know? Stay quiet. Let me read… On April 28, 2007 a group of villagers in Bare Root, East Coast Demerara, beat a woman to death. They thought she was an Old Higue. They throw rice around her.”
“Mommy got plenty rice. She won’t miss it,” says Sammy. “It say where we got to put the rice?”
“Yeah, we gotta put a heap of raw rice near the foot of our bed. The Old Higue gotta count the grains of rice. While she counting the rice, we can sneak out of bed and call Dad.”
“Then Daddy can beat she with the pointer-broom,” says Sammy.
******
Sunday evening. Mom and Dad are watching TV. Sammy and I are on the back landing. We draw a chalk line along the bottom of the back door. We draw another line along the bottom of the front door. For extra protection, we mark each door with a large cross.
At bedtime, after Dad turns off all the lights, Sammy and I get to work. With light from Sammy’s flashlight, we place small piles of rice at each bed-foot. I climb up onto the top bunk.
“You can sleep in my bed tonight?” says Sammy.
I’m glad he asked. I don’t want to sleep alone tonight. I take my pillow and join him on the bottom bunk. Sammy covers me with his sheet. I hide the flashlight under my pillow. Sammy snuggles up under my left arm like he did when he was a baby. I hug him to my chest. Tonight, no Ole Higue is going to suck my brother’s blood.
“What we going do if the chalk lines and rice don’t work,” says Sammy.
“I going stay awake and start screaming when I see she.”
My brother struggles to stay awake with me. But within half-hour, he falls asleep. I keep watch in the shadowy room. My body stiffens at the slightest noise. Men walk by on the street. Cocoa barks from the front gate. They curse him. The landlord’s Dobermans bark and growl. A cat hisses. Cocoa runs up our front stairs. During the night, he lies on the landing. Mom complains all the time about the stink dog smell on her doorstep. She’s asked Dad umpteen times to build a gate at the top of the landing to keep the dog out. I suppose it gives Cocoa a good view of our yard. According to Sammy: “He pick up scent better from high up.” I don’t care about these things. But tonight, it’s good to know that Cocoa is on guard. He’ll bark when the Ole Higue appears. He’ll take a chunk of her flesh like he did with the postman.
Cocoa barks. My brain comes alive. It’s after midnight. I must have dozed off. A mango falls from the Ole Higue’s tree. I hug my brother. Cocoa growls. My muscles tense. I tighten my grip on Sammy. I pull out the flashlight from under my pillow. I flick the switch and beam the light around the bedroom. Cocoa moans. Silence. I wait. My body is so rigid, I can’t move. No ball of fire appears. No skinless, raw flesh apparition. I wait. I survey the room. All is still. Cocoa must be asleep. I should get some sleep too. I listen to Sammy’s slow rhythmic breathing. I feel the gentle heaving against my chest. It’s the last thing I remember. Sleep conquers me; it carries me off to the belly of the black widow spider.
Monday morning. Our weekend break is over. It’s back to school again. The Ole Higue is not in our bedroom counting the rice grains. There’s no blood on Sammy’s neck, pajamas or pillowcase. Sammy and I hug each other. The Ole Higue could not come near us. We are safe.
“The chalk marks work,” says Sammy. “Is true what they say: Ole Higue can’t cross the chalk line.”
Sammy and I get ready for school and have breakfast. I help Sammy to pack his school bag. Mom sits at her dressing table, putting on make-up.
“If you all want a lift to school, you better get moving,” says Dad. “I going downstairs to warm up the old Ford.” Dad opens the front door. “Zina! Sammy! Come here quick!”
I freeze. Sammy and I stare at each other. Sammy rushes to the front door. I follow.
Dad stands in the open doorway. “Is who would do a thing like this?”
Someone had moved our doormat to the center of the landing. Cocoa lies on top of the doormat. His head rests in a pool of blood. Toilet-paper balls adorn his lifeless form like a corpse prepared for the pyre.
I reach out and squeeze Sammy’s hand.
"The World of Plastics – and You!" By Gary Girdhari
Have you ever taken a moment to think about the excessive packaging of goods and materials bought in stores and online? Well, I have, and I’m sure many others have thought about this also. For some others, it doesn’t matter because it is of no concern – only because it has not yet come up into their realization. They accept it, like most others things, as a way of life, because they/we are being “told” it’s the way to go!
As an example: after returning from a supermarket you will find that you will have twice as many plastic bags as the number of items purchased, thanks to ‘double’ bagging. Or if you buy a small gadget online, you will find amazingly that the small item is in a box (plastic sometimes) which is placed in another much larger shipping box filled with Styrofoam and/or bubblewrap.
Look around and try to assess the bags, packaging, the varieties of plastic wrappings, the so-called modern amenities that are supposed to make your life easier. A quick look: coffee and soup cups, pre-packaged sandwiches and salads, the ubiquitous soda and water (plastic) bottles, plastic milk bottles, packaged fruits and meats in polystyrene trays, take-away foods containers, plastic knives, forks and spoons, plastic wrappings of bread, containers for ice cream, yoghurt, potato chips and Doritos. If you have a baby, include the many pampers and containers for the wipes. And then you may utilize a plastic bag for each of these items. This is a quick look, and we are all ‘guilty’.
In Britain alone it is estimated that people discard 58 billion items – 1.5 million tonnes – of household plastic packaging a year, not to mention other plastic items. I have visited my local flea market at the end-of-day operation and I was startled to observe the large quantity of plastics strewn on the tarmac – this does not include the plastic bags of customers.
It is indeed startling and worrisome: how in a short time we have been lured into a false sense of what is good for us. Gone are the days of the re-usable and washable bags. Yes, we now live in a disposable society.
Already there are scary announcements of a ‘doomsday’ as a consequence of rapid climate change – manmade global warming. Our disregard for our natural world has obviously been for short-term benefit for a few. We have indulged in unnecessary excesses in over-consumption, improper utilization of land and water, deforestation and plunder of global resources. And for the ordinary person who has been indoctrinated into accepting “what is good for you’, his behavior is now knee-jerk, unconscious and habituated.
Human life and indeed all life may face an apocalypse of man’s own making ahead of the biblical forewarning. It is imperative to change direction; to modify our behavior; to unlearn bad practices. Some businesses and special interest groups will continue to peddle their goods for mere money and profits. But the future of our planet – the earth, water and air – with all life on it, is in jeopardy unless we collectively make a conscious action plan to change our relationship with the world around us – soon. The seek-and-find, the frontier man’s spirit of brutal capture, the hunter instinct, have all led to plunder for selfish gain. Let us be reminded that Nature is not inexhaustible. There has to be an attitudinal change to embrace the natural world, to nurture it rather than destroy it. (I was so pleased this past week or so when I taught a 3-year old and a 5-year old the three R’s – reduce reuse recycle.) They are too young to grasp the concept, but, by example and repeated counsel, guidance and encouragement, the ideas will be reinforced and the buzz words may become practical routines.
Do we need government to make rules and laws to change lifestyles and attitudes? Yes, we do. But often, government is the problem. The people are the government! And we the people have to be active – to participate and agitate for meaningful change – to tell government what must be done.
Let us be clear in the recognition that modern invention has benefited humanity enormously. Plastics has greatly advanced the quality of life in many instances. But it is the unwise and excessive usage that is creating problems. Plastics are non-biodegradable. Generally, there are poor recyclable practices. They form toxic landfills. They also kill many marine life forms by entanglement and suffocation.
We have to think sagaciously not only for short-term economic gains and feigned comfort, but also acknowledge that unabated exploitation of our natural world and injudicious excesses will certainly and exponentially further eat away the essential natural support systems on which all life depend.
We are all in this together. We either swim together or sink together.
As an example: after returning from a supermarket you will find that you will have twice as many plastic bags as the number of items purchased, thanks to ‘double’ bagging. Or if you buy a small gadget online, you will find amazingly that the small item is in a box (plastic sometimes) which is placed in another much larger shipping box filled with Styrofoam and/or bubblewrap.
Look around and try to assess the bags, packaging, the varieties of plastic wrappings, the so-called modern amenities that are supposed to make your life easier. A quick look: coffee and soup cups, pre-packaged sandwiches and salads, the ubiquitous soda and water (plastic) bottles, plastic milk bottles, packaged fruits and meats in polystyrene trays, take-away foods containers, plastic knives, forks and spoons, plastic wrappings of bread, containers for ice cream, yoghurt, potato chips and Doritos. If you have a baby, include the many pampers and containers for the wipes. And then you may utilize a plastic bag for each of these items. This is a quick look, and we are all ‘guilty’.
In Britain alone it is estimated that people discard 58 billion items – 1.5 million tonnes – of household plastic packaging a year, not to mention other plastic items. I have visited my local flea market at the end-of-day operation and I was startled to observe the large quantity of plastics strewn on the tarmac – this does not include the plastic bags of customers.
It is indeed startling and worrisome: how in a short time we have been lured into a false sense of what is good for us. Gone are the days of the re-usable and washable bags. Yes, we now live in a disposable society.
Already there are scary announcements of a ‘doomsday’ as a consequence of rapid climate change – manmade global warming. Our disregard for our natural world has obviously been for short-term benefit for a few. We have indulged in unnecessary excesses in over-consumption, improper utilization of land and water, deforestation and plunder of global resources. And for the ordinary person who has been indoctrinated into accepting “what is good for you’, his behavior is now knee-jerk, unconscious and habituated.
Human life and indeed all life may face an apocalypse of man’s own making ahead of the biblical forewarning. It is imperative to change direction; to modify our behavior; to unlearn bad practices. Some businesses and special interest groups will continue to peddle their goods for mere money and profits. But the future of our planet – the earth, water and air – with all life on it, is in jeopardy unless we collectively make a conscious action plan to change our relationship with the world around us – soon. The seek-and-find, the frontier man’s spirit of brutal capture, the hunter instinct, have all led to plunder for selfish gain. Let us be reminded that Nature is not inexhaustible. There has to be an attitudinal change to embrace the natural world, to nurture it rather than destroy it. (I was so pleased this past week or so when I taught a 3-year old and a 5-year old the three R’s – reduce reuse recycle.) They are too young to grasp the concept, but, by example and repeated counsel, guidance and encouragement, the ideas will be reinforced and the buzz words may become practical routines.
Do we need government to make rules and laws to change lifestyles and attitudes? Yes, we do. But often, government is the problem. The people are the government! And we the people have to be active – to participate and agitate for meaningful change – to tell government what must be done.
Let us be clear in the recognition that modern invention has benefited humanity enormously. Plastics has greatly advanced the quality of life in many instances. But it is the unwise and excessive usage that is creating problems. Plastics are non-biodegradable. Generally, there are poor recyclable practices. They form toxic landfills. They also kill many marine life forms by entanglement and suffocation.
We have to think sagaciously not only for short-term economic gains and feigned comfort, but also acknowledge that unabated exploitation of our natural world and injudicious excesses will certainly and exponentially further eat away the essential natural support systems on which all life depend.
We are all in this together. We either swim together or sink together.
COMMUNITY NEGLECT By Gary Girdhari
Our elected officials in New York City and those in charge of certain essential infrastructures and services most likely do not ride the subway in South Queens, New York, or, if they do, they do not pay adequate attention, or they don’t care about the residents.
When I do take the subway I usually start at 104 Street/Oxford on the A line. The old decrepit stairways, then mezzanine/waiting area, and the second set of stairs to the platform greet me with a stench – an admixture of decay, rot, and plain dirtiness. The cracks and holes, the peelings and rust on the ceiling and walls are a disgrace to basic quality of life. It must take years to deteriorate to this state – reminiscent of conditions in many Third World countries. At the same time, one can find oftentimes all of the lights supplying the (open) platform on, well into the bright hours of the day. Similar conditions are seen at other locations, at least along the A line. Many other subway lines have received good beautification. But here at Oxford, 88 Street, Euclid one can certainly make the case of low maintenance and deliberate neglect.
Another example of neglect is road maintenance. Last year I took pictures of several streets where holes had worsened to the state where a couple of car tires could fit in easily, and this was actually done by someone as a temporary fix. Eventually these were filled in and repaired, but in about a year or less they (the same ones) began to sink in again. It is like papering over cracks. (And if perchance there is a small hole nearby, this would be left for another time!) One may conclude that poor workmanship is the reason. But repeated occurrences suggest otherwise. A more likely explanation is that the contractors are employing shoddy practices to ensure future contracts, in perpetuity – but at the expense of taxpayers’ dollars and as a serious hazard to life and property.
It is amazing to find relative peace and quiet, and cleanliness away from the main thoroughfares such as Liberty Avenue. I speak of Liberty Avenue because I see it every day. I see people of all ages, gender, national background and ethnicity, many nonchalantly strewing the sidewalk and street with diverse garbage, overstuffing street corner bins with household garbage. I see many hacking and spitting on the sidewalk, sometimes in front of my doorstep, in my presence, as though it is the correct and accepted thing to do. I see new and old faces, a few of whom are chronic alcoholics, woefully pitiful to conjecture their dilemma. I listen to the foulest cuss words, loud and resonant, with a discernable accent – in the public, as though such language is the norm.
Why is it that a community is allowed to progressively deteriorate? This community has been taking blows sitting down. There is no combativeness, no active aggressiveness to demand action from the authorities. It is not unusual that those with limited economic and political clout – the poor – are selectively and collectively sidelined.
Some times it is the individual’s choice that counts – to question and make complaints, and to question one’s own behavior, so that on an individual basis he/she can self-regulate his/her own behavior. But in the end it is the orchestra that plays the fine music. The don’t-care-it’s-not-my-business attitude must give way to it’s-my-community-and-yours-too. As concerned citizens we must not only respond to things in our community, we must also deliberately and forcefully make it the way we want it. Sometimes we may find ourselves at a disadvantage because our political capacity is comparatively inadequate; but we are smart enough – we can advocate, we can make tough, legitimate and fair demands in an uncompromising manner. Or we can be selfish and insular, and submissively accept our presumed limitations, and continue to receive the wrong end of the stick.
If the recent G8 meeting is a guide to global economic relationship, we have to think again, hard. According to a BBC report: “And on the poverty agenda, aid agencies feared that - far from any new help for the needy in Africa - the G8 leaders were no longer in a mood to be generous, and might not even commit themselves to stumping up the money owed on previous aid pledges.” While they gave lip service on poverty in the distressed world, they were gorging on eight-course twenty-five dish meal prepared by twenty chefs.
The point is you have to do it for yourselves, to agitate for your just rights – individually and collectively. There is no benevolent dictator!
If you are not part of the solution, you are part of the problem. Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will. (Eldridge Cleaver)
When I do take the subway I usually start at 104 Street/Oxford on the A line. The old decrepit stairways, then mezzanine/waiting area, and the second set of stairs to the platform greet me with a stench – an admixture of decay, rot, and plain dirtiness. The cracks and holes, the peelings and rust on the ceiling and walls are a disgrace to basic quality of life. It must take years to deteriorate to this state – reminiscent of conditions in many Third World countries. At the same time, one can find oftentimes all of the lights supplying the (open) platform on, well into the bright hours of the day. Similar conditions are seen at other locations, at least along the A line. Many other subway lines have received good beautification. But here at Oxford, 88 Street, Euclid one can certainly make the case of low maintenance and deliberate neglect.
Another example of neglect is road maintenance. Last year I took pictures of several streets where holes had worsened to the state where a couple of car tires could fit in easily, and this was actually done by someone as a temporary fix. Eventually these were filled in and repaired, but in about a year or less they (the same ones) began to sink in again. It is like papering over cracks. (And if perchance there is a small hole nearby, this would be left for another time!) One may conclude that poor workmanship is the reason. But repeated occurrences suggest otherwise. A more likely explanation is that the contractors are employing shoddy practices to ensure future contracts, in perpetuity – but at the expense of taxpayers’ dollars and as a serious hazard to life and property.
It is amazing to find relative peace and quiet, and cleanliness away from the main thoroughfares such as Liberty Avenue. I speak of Liberty Avenue because I see it every day. I see people of all ages, gender, national background and ethnicity, many nonchalantly strewing the sidewalk and street with diverse garbage, overstuffing street corner bins with household garbage. I see many hacking and spitting on the sidewalk, sometimes in front of my doorstep, in my presence, as though it is the correct and accepted thing to do. I see new and old faces, a few of whom are chronic alcoholics, woefully pitiful to conjecture their dilemma. I listen to the foulest cuss words, loud and resonant, with a discernable accent – in the public, as though such language is the norm.
Why is it that a community is allowed to progressively deteriorate? This community has been taking blows sitting down. There is no combativeness, no active aggressiveness to demand action from the authorities. It is not unusual that those with limited economic and political clout – the poor – are selectively and collectively sidelined.
Some times it is the individual’s choice that counts – to question and make complaints, and to question one’s own behavior, so that on an individual basis he/she can self-regulate his/her own behavior. But in the end it is the orchestra that plays the fine music. The don’t-care-it’s-not-my-business attitude must give way to it’s-my-community-and-yours-too. As concerned citizens we must not only respond to things in our community, we must also deliberately and forcefully make it the way we want it. Sometimes we may find ourselves at a disadvantage because our political capacity is comparatively inadequate; but we are smart enough – we can advocate, we can make tough, legitimate and fair demands in an uncompromising manner. Or we can be selfish and insular, and submissively accept our presumed limitations, and continue to receive the wrong end of the stick.
If the recent G8 meeting is a guide to global economic relationship, we have to think again, hard. According to a BBC report: “And on the poverty agenda, aid agencies feared that - far from any new help for the needy in Africa - the G8 leaders were no longer in a mood to be generous, and might not even commit themselves to stumping up the money owed on previous aid pledges.” While they gave lip service on poverty in the distressed world, they were gorging on eight-course twenty-five dish meal prepared by twenty chefs.
The point is you have to do it for yourselves, to agitate for your just rights – individually and collectively. There is no benevolent dictator!
If you are not part of the solution, you are part of the problem. Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will. (Eldridge Cleaver)
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Polyphemus as a Prophet by Balwant Bhagwandin
Polyphemus as Prophet
Ayman al-Zawahiri is desperately sought
for being
the dedicated vision physician
to a cyclopean mullah
and a self-proclaimed caliph
one made one-eyed in battle
and narrow of sight and homicidal both
by choice
and bereft of tear glands
to buttress which he prescribed
dwelling in caves
and travel only by night
down tunnels, burrows and streets unlit
to places kept in the dark
by design
from where to nurture
and dispatch their flocks
in the fashion
of Old Man Hassan ben Sabbah
as universal hashishins
and the good doctor’s postulations
holds positive prognosis
of neither permanence
nor peaceful existence
for all outside of the fold
lest they accept
agoraphobia
and, similarly if not more, photophobia
as gifts
from the one true god
for the chosen
and adopt as absolute arkan
rewarded
by martyrdom in heaven
eradication of unbelievers
in this canon
as if they were malarial …
– ©Balwant Bhagwandin.
(Sunday, August 03, 2003, 12:49:27 AM.)
Ayman al-Zawahiri is desperately sought
for being
the dedicated vision physician
to a cyclopean mullah
and a self-proclaimed caliph
one made one-eyed in battle
and narrow of sight and homicidal both
by choice
and bereft of tear glands
to buttress which he prescribed
dwelling in caves
and travel only by night
down tunnels, burrows and streets unlit
to places kept in the dark
by design
from where to nurture
and dispatch their flocks
in the fashion
of Old Man Hassan ben Sabbah
as universal hashishins
and the good doctor’s postulations
holds positive prognosis
of neither permanence
nor peaceful existence
for all outside of the fold
lest they accept
agoraphobia
and, similarly if not more, photophobia
as gifts
from the one true god
for the chosen
and adopt as absolute arkan
rewarded
by martyrdom in heaven
eradication of unbelievers
in this canon
as if they were malarial …
– ©Balwant Bhagwandin.
(Sunday, August 03, 2003, 12:49:27 AM.)
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
I Hear Guyana Cry
IHear Guyana Cry! by Balwant'>http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/238274.Balwant_Bhagwandin">Balwant BhagwandinMy review
rating: 5 of 5 starsThis is a great anthology of poetry by Balwant Bhagwandin. the style and format of the poetry is outstanding and his is possibly one of the greatest poets today, unfortunately he is not as well known. He is a fellow countryman from Guyana and a friend.
All one has to do is read ONE of his poems to be enlighted about a situation in the world and in this case, the country of Guyana.
View all my reviews.
My Voice by Samuel SinghMy review
rating: 5 of 5 stars
This is the best book of poetry I have seem in a long while. It teaches of culture, different times and places as well as has distint voices to different people of each social upbringing. I would strongly reccomend to all of those who read and appreciate poetry, to check it out. It is one of the best anthologies out there and the poet needs a bit more airtime to have his words known.
View all my reviews.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
VIOLENCE IN GUYANA: HOW CRIME HAS BECOME A PREOCCUPATION By Gary Girdhari
Early the morning of Guyana’s Independence Day, I read Prem Misir’s feature on the “politics of ethnic marginalization” of Afro-Guyanese in Guyana. (Chronicle 05/26/02) Then I read Ravi Dev’s letter “the PPP has become ineffective…” (Stabroek News 05/25/02). After this I read Janet Jagan’s piece affecting concern about “What’s happening to Mr Hoyte” (Mirror 05/26/02). I re-read Lorri Alexander’s “I will continue searching for the way forward”. (Stabroek News 05/25/02)
Lorri Alexander, an unapologetic admirer and supporter of Forbes Burnham was obviously enjoying his verbose diatribe. One can visualize his smirk. But hero worshipping Burnham is not going to move anyone or anything forward.
Ravi Dev wants to make political mileage. His ethnic (Indian) concern may be real, but his contribution lacks any kind of truthful historical analysis; thus his premise and conclusions are faulty. Janet Jagan, witty and discerning, points to (to me) a serious flaw in our Guyanese culture where we tend to be getting gross, impolite, disrespectful, lacking decorum and finesse in the art of refined diplomacy – indeed uncultured – for Desmond Hoyte to call President Jagdeo a “liar” on national TV without offering any evidence or proof is indelicate. For the Leader of the Opposition to utter statements such as “to make the country ungovernable”, “slow fire” and “more fire” is ungentlemanly, unpatriotic, and borders on sedition. Reading Janet Jagan’s article however evoked some pity for Desmond Hoyte. But I retract. He is a dangerous man – he does not trifle with his words. He, like Hamilton Green of the past, is a product of the Burnham era, and a Burnham’s protégée. Their language have always been crude and uncouth (when they want to), and meant to instill fear and display arrogance and raw power – to anyone, regardless of ethnicity or status in the society. Obviously, they feel that they nothing wrong during their days in government.
Lorri Alexander, an unapologetic admirer and supporter of Forbes Burnham was obviously enjoying his verbose diatribe. One can visualize his smirk. But hero worshipping Burnham is not going to move anyone or anything forward.
Ravi Dev wants to make political mileage. His ethnic (Indian) concern may be real, but his contribution lacks any kind of truthful historical analysis; thus his premise and conclusions are faulty. Janet Jagan, witty and discerning, points to (to me) a serious flaw in our Guyanese culture where we tend to be getting gross, impolite, disrespectful, lacking decorum and finesse in the art of refined diplomacy – indeed uncultured – for Desmond Hoyte to call President Jagdeo a “liar” on national TV without offering any evidence or proof is indelicate. For the Leader of the Opposition to utter statements such as “to make the country ungovernable”, “slow fire” and “more fire” is ungentlemanly, unpatriotic, and borders on sedition. Reading Janet Jagan’s article however evoked some pity for Desmond Hoyte. But I retract. He is a dangerous man – he does not trifle with his words. He, like Hamilton Green of the past, is a product of the Burnham era, and a Burnham’s protégée. Their language have always been crude and uncouth (when they want to), and meant to instill fear and display arrogance and raw power – to anyone, regardless of ethnicity or status in the society. Obviously, they feel that they nothing wrong during their days in government.
I began to reflect on the spate of violence in Guyana and could not help but recognize that the methodology employed by the PNC and their allies is consistent with that found in societies that engage in ethnic conflicts. (See “The Irrationality of Ethnicity”, page 11.) I revisited the report of the PNC X-13 Plan to gain some fresh perspective and, as ever before, I was appalled. A colleague had mentioned a couple of weeks ago in reference to the crime situation in Guyana: “Like the X-13 in operation now!” And I soliloquized: “Is history repeating?” I wondered…. And wonder.
Ravi Dev had documented names of those who suffered casualties of political and racial violence, and Rakesh Rampertab (SN 05/26/02) has named names of others who experienced similar fates. On the GNI Discussion Board, BK has also drawn attention to the current violence, and was hoping to get some action initiated. Since then many individuals have voiced their views on the crime situation in Guyana. Some have offered concrete proposals, as Dev subsequently did in asking the government to have a firm hand against “terrorism”.
Indeed, it is alarming!
I do not live in Guyana, and admit that I do not know or get the direct feel of what’s happening on the ground. But when one reads the Guyana newspapers, the predominant bulletin (usually front page) that hits home is crime – gruesome and deadly.
For a country with the population of Guyana the crime rate is relatively high. But, as observed by Prem Misir in a subsequent feature, the crime rate is now lower than in the past. One may surmise and conclude that though crime is occurring often, the overall criminality of the nation is small since the crimes are executed repeatedly only by a small group of individuals, and in the most gruesome manner. This however is not consoling and does not give peace of mind to the citizens. Nor does it cover up the perception and reality at home and abroad – that here is a reckless, renegade country!
The repeatability and the callousness of such crimes are not singular to Guyana. Look around the world! In Ireland. In Gujarat. In Kashmir. In Jamaica. In Columbia. In Nepal. In many African nations. In Palestine. In Sri Lanka. In Madagascar. And elsewhere, including Chicago, Detroit, New York and other large metropolitan cities!
For some people, such violent behavior and carnage justify their cause. Newsweek magazine recently tells the story of young boys being abducted in armies as child soldiers. Their social life, indeed their total life, is constructed in an environment of violence. So too are those who are born in the perpetual violence of Ireland and Palestine. And in the name of God, sometimes. What else can one expect from the children of war today! Are the men setting the right example when they create wars – dressed in fancy suits, with sculpted smiles, all decked out for the TV cameras?
In Guyana, criminal activities have becoming excessive, generating constant fear – fear to move about freely, fear to do business (since most of the targeted people are in business), fear of overseas tourists, holidays makers and investors to visit. These can impact seriously the growth of the nation – in all spheres of activities – as indeed is happening. Chronicle (06/05/02) reports that “The private sector, touted as the engine of growth in the national economy, has said it is hurting badly from the impact of the current crime wave.”
Crime in Guyana is like a stinking cancerous canker, a festering sore, and a blemish to the good name of Guyana and all respectable and caring Guyanese. It can spread and consume the entire body.
Most Guyanese do care. Yet, some people carry on as though everything is OK. Some even snigger openly! What is very frightening and worrying is the impression that the Police are ineffective and unable to cope with the situation. Citizens feel a sense of loss, uncertainty and despair, as a Guyanese visitor to New York told me. Such a scenario can develop into vigilante action which is being advocated in some quarters!
Some people argue that the current crime wave is being bred, and is ethnically motivated; some claim that it is politically motivated; while others say that it is criminal activity, pure and simple. All may have some validity. In addition, there appears to be some copy-cat crimes.
During and after the last general elections there was a spate of violence directed primarily towards East Indians, which lend some credence to the first argument. Political motivation for favoring crime is well documented in the opposition PNC X-13 Plan since the 1960s, the “kick-down-the-door” banditry in the 1980s (which may also be considered ethnic, as it was directed against Indians in particular), and more recently with the PNC’s glorification of the dangerous criminal Linden ‘Blackie’ London. The “Gang of Five” is similarly being admired as heroes and referred to as “freedom fighters” when in fact they are veteran robbers and killers. The implied notion circulated by some opposition elements that some criminal activities are in retaliation to the “extra-judicial” killings by the Police is specious and highly inflammatory. These criminals are “professionals” who conduct criminal activities as a business – a very lucrative business – and nothing gets in their way! Some opine that it is political and “centrally directed”.
One should note also that the many deportees (criminals), who flooded Guyana from the U.S. and UK, took with them their criminal savvy, and have been implementing their know-how since then in Guyana. (An embarrassing situation where the Guyana government was told to accept the deportees, or else. The government buckled under the pressure and threat from the U.S. and was coerced to accept the deportees. What else could the government do? Fight the “Imperium”?)
There is no doubt that some crimes are personal, and some occur among warring groups involved in illicit activities such as drug deals that go sour. However, based on the methods of operation and the sophistication of weaponry and communication, other questions are prompted: Is there any link between some criminals and institutions that possess the weaponry? Are weapons smuggled in from the borders of Suriname, Venezuela and Brazil? Where do they obtain military fatigues, helmets, and bulletproof vests? To be sure, there is no randomness in what is going on now.
Many are criticizing the government for their rather slapdash manner in dealing with the crime situation – the Ministry of Home Affairs, the DPP and the Police having all performed poorly. The government’s complacency has resulted in too much laxity and ambivalence – they hope that the criminals would just “go away”. On one hand, the government and the police are being criticized by opposition elements and Amnesty International for the “extra-judicial” killings, and on the other, they are accused of not being more proactive and firm. How much can the government really do in a society that alleges ethnic divide, marginalization, ethnic insecurity and powerlessness? When it is being regularly threatened by “mo fiah, slow fiah”! When Afro-Guyanese intellectuals especially, sympathetic to the PNC, regularly propagandize the outbidders’ mantras!
Some few, who are adherents of ethnic advocacy, decry the government’s handling of the situation. They offer no solution! Some appear quite happy, knowing that the so-called “freedom fighters” are doing their bidding. Others don’t take these positions, and are aghast and horrified, and seriously concerned with what is taking place…. In spite of the shortcomings, government has, in the circumstances, been walking a tight rope in a society where political entrepreneurs are regularly agitating and appealing to the vain instincts of ethnic distrust. This ethnic appeal is extremely powerful and emotive. Observe how it’s causing bloodletting among blood brothers in Ireland, India, Palestine and Rwanda, to name a few places. And even among some of my acquaintances! “The irrationality of ethnicity” (see Stabroek News editorial 05/23/02) surfaces often enough to cause social, economic and political dis-equilibrium. The government has been sensibly re-directing the dialogue from a potential all-out ethnic conflict. Think about it.
Unfortunately, some assess this as a form of weakness and lack of resolve, especially when one reads the anemic statement from the Minister of Home Affairs: "we are very much cognisant of the situation and we are doing what is necessary to contain the situation and reduce the crime (and) eventually to deal with the criminal situation in a comprehensive manner."
Many recognize the similarity in the methods adopted by the PNC and other peoples, for example, in Rwanda – by their newspaper releases, their radio and TV propaganda, their bulletins and fliers that carry the emotive call for “blood”. Guyana is a classic case where an ethnic conflict cauldron is boiling – just waiting for that critical degree of “heat”…. The government’s cautious handling of the ethnic issues must therefore be admired, even if one may not fully agree. This is the reality! This is real politick! There is a threatening fear of an internal implosion because all the ingredients are present.
But who is winning this war? Why is there so much lawlessness in Guyana (and in the rest of the world)? As far my memory goes there have always been wars of invasion and of conflicts – ethnic and religious. It seems that this is the preferred way for the powerful and the bully – for imperialistic dominance, for hegemony in all forms, for oil, for control and power, so as to amass immense wealth and subjugate the others. This is the brutal but true quintessence of our so-called civilized social relations.
So that when we observe violence that are obviously directed against one’s ethnicity or religion, usually there is a more profound underlying motivation for such action. And when we see the deteriorating anti-social behavior and criminality in society, the excessive use of force and violence, should we not ask: “Where are the criminals getting their ideas from? Who are their role models? Are they not reveling in their criminal acts in the same way we are glorifying wars? Wars on land, seas and in the air? And in the movies?”
(For those interested in conflict studies, the following are two good references: “Ethnic Violence, Conflict Resolution and Cultural Pluralism”. Report of UNRISD/UNDP, New York, August 1994. “The Search for Identity: Ethnicity, Religion and Political Violence” by Yusuf Bangara. UNRISD, Occasional Paper, No. 6, 1996.) Both can be found on the internet.)
Unfortunately, some assess this as a form of weakness and lack of resolve, especially when one reads the anemic statement from the Minister of Home Affairs: "we are very much cognisant of the situation and we are doing what is necessary to contain the situation and reduce the crime (and) eventually to deal with the criminal situation in a comprehensive manner."
Many recognize the similarity in the methods adopted by the PNC and other peoples, for example, in Rwanda – by their newspaper releases, their radio and TV propaganda, their bulletins and fliers that carry the emotive call for “blood”. Guyana is a classic case where an ethnic conflict cauldron is boiling – just waiting for that critical degree of “heat”…. The government’s cautious handling of the ethnic issues must therefore be admired, even if one may not fully agree. This is the reality! This is real politick! There is a threatening fear of an internal implosion because all the ingredients are present.
But who is winning this war? Why is there so much lawlessness in Guyana (and in the rest of the world)? As far my memory goes there have always been wars of invasion and of conflicts – ethnic and religious. It seems that this is the preferred way for the powerful and the bully – for imperialistic dominance, for hegemony in all forms, for oil, for control and power, so as to amass immense wealth and subjugate the others. This is the brutal but true quintessence of our so-called civilized social relations.
So that when we observe violence that are obviously directed against one’s ethnicity or religion, usually there is a more profound underlying motivation for such action. And when we see the deteriorating anti-social behavior and criminality in society, the excessive use of force and violence, should we not ask: “Where are the criminals getting their ideas from? Who are their role models? Are they not reveling in their criminal acts in the same way we are glorifying wars? Wars on land, seas and in the air? And in the movies?”
(For those interested in conflict studies, the following are two good references: “Ethnic Violence, Conflict Resolution and Cultural Pluralism”. Report of UNRISD/UNDP, New York, August 1994. “The Search for Identity: Ethnicity, Religion and Political Violence” by Yusuf Bangara. UNRISD, Occasional Paper, No. 6, 1996.) Both can be found on the internet.)
In Guyana there are only a few main highways and very few arteries. Why is it then that the criminals are able to escape after robberies and murders? Under normal conditions, Police operate within proscribed rules and due diligence. But under extra-ordinary conditions the Police must adopt other strategies and actions as dictated by the prevailing conditions. And not merely meeting with church leaders.
Upon deliberating, the following strategies and actions are suggested:
1. The Police must first be mandated by the central government and given the full authority by the Ministry of Home Affairs.
2. The Police must maintain professionalism, meaning also, that they must be impartial and unfettered from political and ethnic alliances. They must perform their duties diligently and according to their oath of office – at all times.
(The military must forget the past regime when they were required to swear allegiance to the PNC which regarded government as an extension of that party.)
3. There must be strong public relations in government and the police to increase public support. Such personnel must have professional expertise and not be contentious as is often the case. Church and civic leader may also be co-opted.
4. The government must ensure that the Police are adequately paid, and that they have the necessary equipment to enhance their effectiveness.
5. There is an apparent open secret of corruption where people (including the police) are ‘paid off’. Corruption must be wiped out at all levels, even if sting operations are set up to catch the offenders. This is necessary to build confidence in the Police and public offices.
6. At certain times (for example, when criminal activity is high – like now) government must call out the Military to support the Police on specific assignments.
7. There should be coordinated communication systems to mobilize the forces, to set up roadblocks, to have aerial surveillance, using cameras and helicopters. Since it is reported that the criminals use machine guns, the police and military must likewise ‘fight fire with fire’.
8. Community policing should be initiated where citizens form working parties to protect their own communities. The National Emergency Commission can also be involved.
9. A reward system and anonymous tips may also be helpful.
10. When the perpetrators of crime are caught, the law must take its course without delay.
11. The government and the Police should solicit the assistance of outside agencies (such as the FBI, Scotland Yard, and others) to aid in the fight of crime.
12. In addition, as a long term re-structuring, government must decentralize the police and the military. Probably, there should be three Commissioners, one for each of the counties, and with full autonomy. Similarly, there should be command centers for the military in the three counties. Recruitment and training, and deployment will be within the respective areas. Thus the police and military response to crime and unrest would be quicker.
– By Gary Girdhari
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Rainbow, narrated by Ken Corsbie, video by Samuel Singh
A story about the rainbow narrated by Ken Corsbie and created by Samuel Singh
NOTE: PLEASE REMEMBER TO TURN UP OR ON THE VOLUME ON YOUR COMPUTER TO HEAR THE WORDS CLEARLY. Original piece written by John Agard.
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