Growing up in a racial landscape… in Guyana
Kaieteur News_ -Oct 21, 2018
‘Race’ has practically become a four-letter word for some Guyanese – although it’s simply a categorization of humans into groups, based on anatomical similarities and on cultural, genetic, geographical religious affiliation etc… It is perceived as a root cause of social division and antagonism, and in our ‘Land of six peoples’ this concept has often taken on strange and ominous connotations that tend to make a mockery of our ‘One People; One Nation; One Destiny’ motto.
This piece barely scratches the surface of ‘Race’ in our beloved El Dorado.
How serious is it? As a young child in Highdam, East Coast Demerara, in the mid-to-late fifties, my friends and I were certainly childishly aware of racial groupings, their characteristics and epithets. But there was little or no malice associated with this awareness although the village and surrounding area comprised a motley collection of Blacks, East Indians and Mixed (really mixed) people. We children were too busy having fun. And adults seemed to get along just fine.
Name Calling
I remember, once only, being scolded by my mother for referring to a teenaged neighbour of ours with a crude rhyme I’d heard somewhere before, “Putagee bumba f**t cucumba…” I also remember East Indian schoolchildren being teased with “Coolie Water Rice…” You know the rest. Black people were taunted with something like ‘Black Man Sala, pound Masala; who ah yuh dadee…?” Yet there was, or at least seemed to be, genuine camaraderie among villagers.
Well, maybe it was just us, children. Learning our three R’s, playing Cricket in the schoolyard, Skipping Rope, Ring Games, Marbles, shooting rubber, riding coconut tree branches, or traversing the dusty red road between Strangroen and De Kinderen (the school’s catchment area) didn’t leave much time for animosity, yet somehow, it left a great deal for friendship and affection. My first post-toddler ‘girlfriends’ were of all ethnicities, including Dougla girls. And so we lived.
Racial Violence in the 1960’s
My family left Highdam for Georgetown in 1958, and by the early sixties, things had changed. I remember in my child’s mind, the racial upheaval of that time. I remember the violence – the beatings and murders, the bombings, riots and fires, the foreign soldiers and local police with their tear gas canisters, the squatters and demonstrators, and above all, the fear and disharmony generated from, I was told, within the main political parties.
I remember the confusion and the angst of my parents, and I’m sure, among PPP and PNC supporters in the 1961 elections, when it was announced that one party had won, only to be later reversed in favour of the other. I remember seeing cars with huge (PPP) cups strapped atop, driving down Camp Street dragging (PNC) brooms behind them, symbolizing victory for one and defeat for the other. I remember hearing the term Apaan Jhat for the first time; and everything seemed pervaded by race.
As I grew up, I heard and ‘learnt’, that Black people were physically stronger, more aggressive, yet lazier than East Indians who in turn were more cunning, clannish, and stoop-to-conquer ambitious. I was privy, as a sort of insider, to both sets of sentiments since, for some inexplicable reason, I wasn’t considered really Black, and I had many Indian friends along with a few almost-Indian relatives. But I saw myself as Black, and thoughtlessly reacted as I imagined an Afro-Guyanese child might, to criticisms and prejudices directed toward ‘my people’.
I was also confused by the racial ambivalence I felt in my teenage years. With ancestors from West Africa, Egypt and Scotland, I tended to relate well to mixed races, but at the same time felt a growing awareness of, and need to assert, my Black African-ness. This was heightened by vicarious exposure to the burgeoning American Black Power movement, and so, by the time I got married in the mid-seventies I’d already planned on giving my children West African names.
The effect of Cricket
Preconceived notions about Blacks and East Indians in the ‘60s, lost some traction for me, after the ‘70s, as discretion and wisdom replaced reactive thinking and feeling. Sports, particularly cricket, helped a great deal in this regard. Like most Guyanese, I knew and felt a sure sense of oneness and nationalistic pride with the exploits of Kanhai and Butcher, Lloyd and Kallicharran, Hooper and Chanderpaul. Cricket, like death, levels the playing field, and puts race in its place.
But some old notions die hard. Prejudice reared its sinister head in 1995 when my eldest son drowned at Anna Regina, Essequibo Coast. My wife and I actually gave heed to the insinuations of some persons in the predominantly East Indian enclave where we lived, who felt that he had been ‘sold’ to appease the wrath of some Hindu deity. Suddenly, what I felt was a certain accident, took on troubling and racist undertones. But resignedly, we left the matter in God’s hands.
Racism in Guyana’s History
Interestingly, a few years ago I read a book written by a colonial magistrate from England in the 19th century. (I can’t recall the name of the book nor the author) But a sizeable part of it dealt with the vicissitudes of life in then British Guiana. The author was particularly keen on recalling incidents in which the criminal acts carried out by perpetrators seem, in hindsight, to have a distinct correlation to many of the very assumptions and prejudices we express today about our races.
Then, like now, it was mostly Blacks and East Indians who were charged with offences ranging from simple larceny to premeditated murder at its most brutal. In this context, most Afro-Guyanese were indeed portrayed as quarrelsome and aggressive, while many Indo-Guyanese were depicted as scheming and cruel. But behaviour traits tend to overlap, and it would be imprudent to imagine that other ethnicities – Portuguese, Chinese, Amerindian and European, were all model citizens. Lawlessness is part of human nature.
The Future
Presumptions and prejudices don’t go away easily. These phenomena are ingrained in the minds and hearts of multitudes of individuals worldwide, from Guyana to Guam, to Greenland. But things will change. That’s my opinion and my optimism; looking through slightly rose-tinted glasses, I see my own version of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World emerging from the ashes of racial intolerance and bigotry. And the champions of this paradigm shift are, CHILDREN!
Comments
Dennis, very apt and informative article, I was born in Nabaclis, the very few East Indian families in that village, My neighbours were “THe Scotlands” today one of them is the Speaker of the House, my neighbour to the north was a headmaster Mr Melbourne who had the sweetest golden … tree When I was 9 we moved to but I had friends Vibert, Marvin and Harry who were my buddies.
I agree with you one day we will get there;
I have to quote this gentleman who asked, “How do we mould a country?” Imagination, intelligence and integrity, sometimes simple decency, it works as well. Talking about gossip he remarked, “We can’t afford it; we’re a little nation. We need to think and act outside of our skins. Every day must be about excellence without let-up until we drop; where every person feels like a leader because every person is a leader.” He said that even a man who has a family is a leader, but stops being a leader when he beats his wife. “Then he becomes a word; coward, a coward. You can’t build a nation from cowardice, you can’t do it; you destroy it like that. Our country can be a very, very special place, but we need to take practical steps to make it real.”
WE STILL HAVE A CHANCE
Let’s get to the very real story
And review our sorry history
Firstly our leaders vied for Independence
It’s our right to get rid of this hindrance
Promising progress with very lofty idealism
Then the Big Two accused us of Communism
Got instead a lukewarm brand of Socialism
Those were the hot days of Cold Wars’ ism
We ended up with a big dose of corruption
Racialism, bloodshed and sheer destruction
The people run away from their beloved Guyana
To England and to the cold harsh North America
Causing a huge brain drain leaving Guyana rudderless
Various parties struggling they too come up clueless
The good ol’ days when rigged ballots rained
And at the same time coffers were drained
As the other parties jump and take over
So did the people as some run for cover
But a simple Guyanese people we are
Don’t want to relive another Wismar
After 51 years we still have a chance
We’ve to stop this bias racial dance
Sadly politicians would never change
It’s like telling a dog it has bad mange
The two races have to come together
Live again like sister and like brother
We have to be Guyanese again not a black man
Think like a Guyanese and not like a coolie man
Be accepted as real down earth Guyanese
You are Chinese, Amer-Indian or Portuguese
Maybe our last chance to make it
Or hate will drive us out of our wit
And politicians on both sides please pard!
Stop hiding behind the stupid race card
There are some things we have to eradicate
Stop fighting one another and stop the hate
Talk to one another stop deny we’re steeped in racialism
Stop lying, face the fact, we have far too much nepotism
Govern for everyone bring back equality
Or drop the darn “e” and focus on quality
Pray to the one Above
For all we need is Love
Listen people take heed
For Love is all you need.
REMEMBERING NABACLIS
I was born to the East Indian race
When things were so very scarce
I know there was a war going on
But at six who cares if they fight
I did know about imported ration
And ‘twas very expensive to face
And as I grew up on E.C.Demerara at Nabaclis
My black neighbours were doing their business
With very few East Indians minions
And we got along fine at that time
Though things were scarce like onions
We were poor but without any racial madness
I didn’t know anything much about politics
I looked upon all as Guyanese without tricks
My mind on evenings was on Marvin’s toy car
And would use any ruse to visit to watch
I’d get away to his house which wasn’t too far
With Albert to play with it even if I get licks
Then on the other side of the street
Harry my friend every day we’d meet
He took me sometimes to the far Middle Walk
To pump for the houri fish by the koker
With fishing rod eating green mango we’d talk
And Ma would fry them for us to eat
We had to walk nearly 2 miles to school
With by my sisters Seer, Chan and Phool
That’s nearly 4 miles all the way
My eldest sister Shri was a tomboy
And would get into fights every day
She was our protector and was no fool
We lived in a very peaceful village
There was no black or brown image
Everyone called the elders Mister
We never call elders by their first names
Everyone was like a brother or sister
There was no hatred or racial rage
My father was the grounds’ caretaker and caters
For the Delinquent Girls Home of the misbehavers
And we got the very best darn fruits all grafted
Since then I’ve never seen such big mangoes
The taste of butter grafted pears not yet abated
Life was slow and quiet but then vice had no takers
As I progressed in body mind and spirit
Grades were given to us according to merit
I excelled in class and when you run errands
For Miss Joseph who chose you to share books
Clean the blackboard and or other demands
The cane was used only to discipline a lil bit
At the Nabaclis Cinema, I saw my first movie so keen
I cannot recall the name but I did remember a scene
A huge black scary train was coming straight at us
And of course, all of us dived for cover under the benches
Such was our simple childish ways without any fuss
I don’t think anyone of us really recall what was seen
At about ten years the good life almost freeze
When we moved to the west coast of Berbice
I think it was betterment for our welfare
For my dad was misbehaving at Nabaclis
And ma thought her brothers would care
Being there all bad behaviour would cease
At Bush Lot it was the opposite politically
There were a few blacks and lots of coolie
We lived at the factory house atop the barn
Which belonged to my three Uncles
Pa worked at the rice mill and wasn’t lazy
And we had acres of concrete to play daily
Something strange happened no one would win
It had to do with money and it was bad as sin
One of my uncles owed my father some cash
When it was pay back time all hell broke loose
That day the workers were ready to bash
Wrecking our fowl pen under the kitchen
I guess this was time to go for we had our fill
Thus ended our happy stay at top of the rice mill
We moved a few blocks away to a home much smaller
And it was a dump located in a flooded area
So when it rained we’re in over a foot of mud and water
The kitchen was not raised for my pa had no goodwill
And things went from bad to worse it behooved
Us and so to my grand mother’s house we moved
To the centre of the village by the Middle Dam
They call it a separation living in a 10×10 shack
With lots of smoke, we were caught in a real jam
Much to the chagrin of the other in-laws, unmoved
My grandmother was a saviour in those days
Who for us had a smile on her face always
Making her oil as I help to grate her coconuts
She was a loving, kind wise old soul who
Taught me proverbs as I fetched water in buckets
She said “Boy bear you chafe this is only a phase”
We were a burden now to my mother
So we were shared out among the brothers
I went with my good Uncle King
And started a new chapter in my life
At first, my Auntie R loved me
And then this love turner to hate later
I was getting an education so I did strove
Had to burst wood to fit in her stupid stove
Feed, clean the pens of the fowls and ducks
And many days when all kids were inside
I had to coax the ducks home with clucks
Whilst in the rains fighting mosquitoes in drove
I was scared of nights for my aunt scary stares
Put fowls to nest in my little room downstairs
The fowls got nimbles and it was all over the room
And I spent my nights scratching and itching
My cousins peeping me through the cracks in gloom
Laughing and giggling at me showing no cares
I took the abuses orally and a few physical
For I was all alone without a relative or pal
To do my homework I got a small lamp
At times I hid under rice bags from the rains
To stay dry and not catch a cold from the damp
As an orphan I bore my chafe awaiting my call.
ndatt@rogers.com
All these stories may not be happy but I love them as they give us a peek into various Guyanese experiences!
The author of the article above certainly seems to feel we can put our racia
l differences aside and become the “One nation, one people and one destiny” that will cause Gyana to shine brightly in this fractured world. I pray that this happens!