Dear Editor,
I believe strongly in the freedoms enshrined in our Constitution. I will always fight back against any attempt to strip citizens of basic freedoms, such as that of speech, assembly, and the right to peaceful protest. However, no right or freedom is absolute; each has a corresponding and equal responsibility.
I was one amongst thousands of Guyanese who fought almost every day to exercise these fundamental rights during the Janet Jagan/Jagdeo PPP regime. Those years are the most indelible marks on life. Those were the years when protesting was “risky business” and life seemed meaningless, as echoes of a sudden death hunted your mind. Those were the days when protestors were branded hooligans and thugs by the regime. Those were days when protestors had to arm themselves with a rag and a bottle of water to take care of teargas launched at them. Some of us practiced how to wet the rag and force it against your face to avoid inhaling too much smoke. Protesting in Guyana was a deadly risk! It was a right that was constant struggle.
Today, I can still smell the teargas that forced its way through my lungs as I tried to breathe; I can still see the visible marks or bruises that are now permanent wounds to remind me of the pellets that targeted my body. No, 2011 was not the first time. Like so many who protested during those times, I was being shot at with pellets long before 2011, but yet I stand! Those happenings remind me of the risk of protesting in Guyana when the previous regime ruled.
Today, I still remember the public assault against me by a senior police officer, who, in August of 2011, snatched me off of Cuffy Square because I was wearing a green t-shirt with David Granger’s name and face. It was the only “crime” I had committed. I was at a government-sponsored public event, attended by then President Jagdeo. I was there like so many other Guyanese, some were wearing their regular clothes and others were wearing red shirts with PPP/C written on the front. I was told that I cannot wear that shirt to this public event. My letter of complaint to the then police commissioner Henry Greene was received by his office and an acknowledgement was sent. No investigation followed and no apology was issued.
Today, I still remember the day Donna McKinnon was brutally gunned down. I was in a funeral procession heading to yet another East Coast village to bury yet another victim of the phantom gang. When news of McKinnon’s execution reached us, many cried for me thinking I was the executed one owing to the description of clothes Donna was wearing. Donna was executed in the empty lot adjacent to Freedom House. That was protesting in Guyana, you could not lag behind. I remember my sister trying to track me down as calls of my death reached her. Today, those images live in my head!
Today, I still hear the echoes of some police officers on their radios as we protested, saying, “lock all of dem #### up.” However, I still hear the hushed voices of the many decent police men and women, who fearfully whispered in my ears, “Sis, a crew coming fuh use force, y’all disperse”! Yes, the majority of the men and women in uniform were decent, law conscious people who recognised wrong from right. I believe many held back when given commands to shoot, a reason I believe the death squad was created.
Today, I still hear the chants of the thousands of people who cried as they marched the streets. They were decent law-abiding Guyanese who were deemed “hooligans, thugs and criminals” by the regime and their friends. Today, I hear prayers of pastors in our midst, praying and prophesying as they marched. Today, I remember the relentless struggle of the rank and file who took to the streets to demonstrate against bad governance in all its forms. These were people who were relentless in their struggle for a decent, uncorrupted and non-crime infested society. Despite the almost daily assault on these protestors, they turned up every day. They were fighting for their country and their children’s protection as it was too ambitious to think of the future. Protection was the order! The threat of death and the stench of death was present everywhere!
I remember when live rounds were used on protestors on the bridge at Linden. I was there. In fact, I was one of those people who organised and officiated at the Georgetown leg of their funerals, held at Cuffy Square. Yes, three protestors were executed on that bridge, others injured.
Today, I remember when late Venezuelan president Chavez was given licence to use Pegasus and Guyana as a launching pad to spew his insults at the US and the West. I was one of those who walked out of that despicable charade which saw the Guyanese president, Jagdeo, sharing the “shaming stage” with delight as he added his own bit of insults.
Today, I am still haunted by the many bullet-riddled bodies of mostly young, black men, whose lifeless bodies decorated the Georgetown Hospital Mortuary’s tables and floor. Today, I still hear the inconsolable cries of mothers who were suddenly confronted with news of their children’s slaughter or kidnapping. I see the mother who rented a backhoe to dig the trench behind the Botanical Garden in the hope that she would fish out her son’s body; unfortunately, that body was never recovered. I remember all too well!
I remember a nervous and visibly shaken George Bacchus, self-confessed death squad informant, telling the deep secrets of the death squad on national television, before he and his brother were executed in their bed. Today, I still remember the bloodstained floor and bed on which Shaka Blair was murdered in the presence of his young children. I was part of the late President Hoyte’s team that visited Blair’s home early that fateful morning. I remember thinking to myself how callous the phantom gang was, but I remained committed to the struggle, not fearful of it as fear had long left me. I was a young woman engaged in a struggle that swept fear out of me. I did not know how to be afraid. Today, I recall seeing Ronald Waddell in a law class sitting at a window a few seats behind me and the next news I heard of him was that he was gunned down on his bridge as he was exiting his car to enter his yard. Waddell was a critic of the government; he had a television programme where he did his analysis.
I recall one of my lecturers in the law department coming to teach us, a bulletproof vest under her clothes. I am sure she was not alone. This was Guyana during those dark days.
I recall the slaughter of my own students who fell victims of the squad. This reality strengthened my resolve even more! No amount of calling me hooligan or thug could have deterred me. My conviction gripped me to the struggle. Teargas and pellets didn’t stop me, nor did they stop any of the faithful. I remember my mother, sisters and brothers calling each other every night to report to each other when I got inside my house; reaching the gate was not enough to say you were home. Yes, during those days my only weapon was the 23rd Psalm, which is still keeping me even today.
Protesting during those days was high risk, a risk that many did not wish to take. Many refused to even voice any concern as they were too consumed with taking care of their own situation. The thought of the “collective good” did not enter their minds. The fear of the regime also crippled the voices of some. However, the ordinary working class Guyanese showed up. When protesting was high risk! Today, I remember so much; I still hear, feel and see so much. Some memories haunt me! I can never forget the many interviews I did with mothers whose children were either kidnapped or brutally slaughtered.
I remember when Buxton was under curfew and soldiers patrolled the streets, laid on the street corners with guns cocked pretending that grass was jungle. I knew this because in 2006, I led a team of young people to campaign in the village and broke that curfew. We marched from the main road to the tents set up at the backdam, where soldiers had their barracks set up. I remember when torture was deemed justified by a minister of government who stood up in the National Assembly and said the brutalising of citizens is nothing but “mere roughing up.” How my blood boiled! I recalled the Minister of Home Affairs, the late Ronald Gajraj declaring in the National Assembly that if he has to work with the death squad, he will! I also remember the morning when three notorious criminals laid sprawled dead close to Gajraj’s house. I remember all these things because I lived through them, I was connected to what was happening, and I was immersed in the struggle, never a bystander. People, freedom and democracy matter!
Today, I see protestors are allowed in the president’s space in an enclosed room to carry on! A dangerous situation. I did not hear of any teargas, pellets, live rounds or arrest! I can only reflect and think about how many of us might have been thrown in the lock-ups and made to face the court if it were during those times. I remember how things used to be; in those days, the private sector might have even teamed up with the regime to demonise us had we tried that stunt that happened at Pegasus. The water cannon might have hosed us down! I would not say we didn’t show up at some places unexpectedly, but when we did; we faced the wrath of the regime even though we were peaceful and lawful. Ask the police! Freedom of speech and of expression were high-priced commodities.
I remember so much more! However, what I see happening today seems quite a paradox! Some screw slack somewhere; some hammer lost its head! When fowl alone left ah yard fuh pick carn, he tink he can dig mo deep fuh get worm!
Every right has an equal and corresponding responsibility.
Yours faithfully,
Lurlene Nestor
