June 28th, 2022 is a day that will remain etched in my memory forever. It was the day I experienced a terror that coursed through my body which felt like a cold snake wrapped around me, tightening its grip with each passing second. Even as I type this, my heart is palpitating at an extreme rate and my fingertips are cold.
This space is used to share women’s experiences, but never did I imagine the day would come when I would be sharing mine. I wish it was a happy experience and not one that brings tears to my eyes; not one that makes me want to curl up in a ball and weep and certainly not one that makes me question my sanity at intervals. I also wish I did not now have to question the empathy of human beings, nor feel I would be a burden to those close to me if I really gave in to my feelings. It is an experience that makes me want to weep whenever I look at my ten-year-old son.
June 28th started off as any other normal working day in my life. In the afternoon as usual, I collected my children from school and brought them to the office to wait while I completed my work.
When I left the office that afternoon, I knew all was not well on the East Coast corridor. Even if I were not a media worker, I would have been well aware that there was protesting, looting and burning in the area I had to traverse. A family was crying out for justice for a young man, who, from all accounts, was brutally murdered by police. Vendors at the Mon Repos Market had been robbed and some were beaten by those who joined the protest under the pretext of commiserating, but in fact were bandits.
After I left the office, I picked up my younger sister as I wanted to ensure that she got home safely to her children. They live past Golden Grove, the hot spot for the protest at the time and the road was closed to vehicular traffic at that point. I live just before Golden Grove, so I parked my car and walked with my sister to Nabaclis so she could get a car or bus to continue her journey home.
My ten-year-old opted to accompany me, while my older son journeyed home on foot.
Just to be clear, I made an assessment before trekking with my child and sister. Numerous police officers, soldiers, fire officers and medical emergency workers were on the road. Some were standing around talking, others were eating, and some were sitting in their vehicles. Numerous other vehicles were on the road, stuck, due to the road being closed. Many commuters were continuing their journey on foot; some heading to Nabaclis, others heading to Haslington. I saw a few people with suitcases, who might have been trying to make their way to the airport.
If I felt anything as we walked along, it was frustration at the situation rather than fear of anything occurring. I observed two blockades on the road in the vicinity of the Golden Grove Market. At the first one, some women were seated on what appeared to be a white sheet that they had spread on the road. Others were milling around in front or at the side of both blockades.
After seeing my sister safely into a car, my son and I started to walk back to where I had parked. We had not walked far when it suddenly began to rain with a vengeance; the raindrops were huge and heavy clouds brought darkness. I opted to seek shelter in a shop, much to the dismay of my son.
“Mommy, we could walk in the rain,” he said, but I indicated that I did not want my hair to get wet. “If you had a plastic bag you could put it on your head,” he answered, and I smiled.
Eventually the rain eased and we continued our journey in a light drizzle. However, the heavy downpour began again and we stopped to wait it out in front of a closed shop, where a few other people were sheltering. By then, the road was mostly clear, as many people seemed to have gone for shelter.
Women with hands in the air
It was here that I observed police officers with riot shields standing behind the second blockade. I was about 15 yards away from them. Some men were saying that women should go and stand in front of the police, since they would not shoot at women and children. One even attempted to pull at my son and I grabbed my child and placed him behind me. I observed about ten women (possibly fewer) standing and kneeling in front of the officers with their hands in the air. As I looked at them, I told myself that being a journalist I would write about this.
That was my last coherent thought. I heard and felt it at the same time; the terrifying sound of rapid gunfire at close range, my body being hit and then an immediate burning sensation. I don’t know when or how I moved. It might have been the sight of my screaming son skipping in the air as he too was hit. Heart racing, I grabbed him and started to run.
“Mommy, we are going to die!” he screamed, as he ran with me.
I said, “Run baby, run”.
Other people were running too. Two men fell to the ground and I jumped over them, in my high heels and all. The gunshots continued and at that point I did know if they were real bullets. A cold hand squeezed my heart when I heard my son say, “Mommy, I get shoot!” I looked at him and saw blood coming from his mouth. I imagined the worst. I felt his teeth had been knocked out, but there was no time to stop and examine him as shots were being fired still and we had to seek cover somehow, somewhere. At this point as well, some people started pelting glass bottles in retaliation; so we were running from gunfire and into the bottles.
We made it to the Golden Grove main road and I assessed that if we hid behind some shops we would be safe; the shots were being fired on the main road. I jumped a short fence and had to help my son over and we hid behind a shop. We had to jump over a drain so nasty that even as I write this my skin crawls at just how unsanitary the area was. We crouched down along with a few women, and at that second I felt we were a little safe. However, I once again felt a stinging on my body and heard shots landing; my son started to scream again and was joined by me and others as we ran again. This time, the police seemed to be firing directly at us, because as we moved from one shop to the next, we were still being hit. Eventually, we got to the side of the last shop and gained a reprieve as while shots were still being fired, they were landing in the mud close to us; the muck pitching up as they landed.
I was crouched on the ground, shielding my son as before and praying to God to save our lives when I heard someone say my name. I looked up and saw a church brother and I almost collapsed in his hands, screaming hysterically that we were going to die. His attempts to calm me down did not help. I got on my knees and I prayed loudly to the living God I know and serve.
With his help, we got into a yard where lessons are held and were able to sit on some benches, but soon we had to get up and run to the back as we heard more shots fired. We hid behind a concrete wall and some women started to attend to me and my son as they observed we had been shot. They threw water on us, as it felt as if I was on fire. My son was sitting there stunned and his lip was bleeding. The women also started to squeeze where they observed our skin was broken, saying that if we had been shot with pellets they needed to get them out.
Even as they were doing this, we were hit with tear gas. My eyes started to burn and my nose felt as if it was blocked. I took off my jacket, wet it and gave it to my son. I hid him under a table while I joined the others at a standpipe where we took turns wetting our faces to alleviate the effects of the tear gas.
I had never screamed and cried so much in my life. I honestly thought I was going to die. In that state, I called my husband and a few other people, letting them know what was happening. All this time, we were hiding behind a concrete wall, praying and wetting our faces.
‘We sorry’
I am not sure how long we remained there. The gunshots and tear gas eventually ceased but we were too scared to leave. It was when my husband called me and indicated he was on the main road but could not get into the street that we left with much trepidation. My son’s lip was still bleeding and his white school t-shirt was bloodied. I was weeping uncontrollably. As we passed the police with riot shields standing at the head of the street with a few soldiers, I heard, ‘we sorry mommy’, ‘we sorry aunty’ and ‘we sorry’. When a senior officer (he was dressed in khaki) told me to get home safely, I weakly asked him “why”; he said, ‘we show restraint whole day, we had to do what we had to do’.
I was not aware that someone had shot a video of my son and I. It ended up on social media and I began receiving numerous calls and texts. I was numb, overwhelmed and could not answer everyone. My body was in pain and I was limping as my right leg and hand took the brunt of the shots. I later discovered that my back and other parts of my body were hit too, but I guess because those areas were covered by my clothes, the effect was not immediately felt. I did not want to go to the hospital. I was so scared. I just wanted to go home.
My son’s lip stopped bleeding, but the next morning his right eye was bloodshot. It is still evident as I write this. We visited the hospital and the doctor informed me that we were hit with rubber bullets and not pellets as we had feared. We were given eye drops, antibiotics and painkillers and told to go home and rest.
I have not rested. I am still terrified and confused. I was later advised (I will not at this point say by whom) that the police’s action was because they had intelligence that things were being planned. I was told that they could have stopped the protest earlier in the day (I am sure most people are questioning why they allowed it to escalate to looting and robbing) but they had the international community looking on and it could have been worse. Worse, how, I asked myself? My son and I are both emotionally scarred; that is our ‘worse’.
I vehemently disagree with the assessment, as the police were not under threat. They knew that commuters were forced to walk on either side of the blockades to continue their journeys. When the rain began, the protestors left the road. It would have made sense for the police to use that opportunity to remove the debris and open the road. If they saw protestors attempting to replace them, then they could have fired warning shots. Or how about using a bullhorn to warn the protestors to get off the road or risk being forcibly removed? Had I heard that I would have ran for my life with my son.
Instead, those who have taken the oath to serve and protect used the cover of darkness and the rain to fire on people, many of whom were just trying to get home.
To be clear, I do not agree with what the protestors did that day. I condemn the robbing and beating of innocent people. I also condemn and abhor the indiscriminate firing of rubber bullets by the “law enforcers,” even on those who were fleeing.
Before I end this chronicle, let me also say that I am disheartened and shaken by the many mean spirited comments I was told were made on social media. I have not and do not intend to read them. I was told that many questioned why I was out there with my child. Let me be explicit: I had a right to go home and my sister had a right to get home safely to her children. Our rights are no less than the thousands of others who were inconvenienced that day, or of the market vendors who were so brazenly attacked.
June 28th 2022 also made me realise how uncaring people can be. I sort of knew it but I guess when it happens at a time like this it is more impactful. As emotionally fragile as this event has left me I could not help but feel judged and wrongfully so. To those of you who reached out and shared kind sentiments, please know that they were very much appreciated. I am grateful for the offers of counselling, and will take advantage of one. My son appears fine; he is up and bouncing and I am happy about that.
As a journalist, I have covered countless dangerous protests. I have been trampled on. I have run to escape tear gas. My phone was stolen. I was once surrounded by angry protestors who assaulted me claiming I was an informer for the PPP/C, but I never felt such fear as I did on June 28th. My stomach still churns.
Thankful for life does not cut it. As we continue to heal physically, there are black spots across my body that remind me of that evening and I can almost walk without a limp. My son’s lip is no longer swollen, the redness in his eye is fading and his bumps are healing. Physically we will get there shortly. Emotionally and psychologically, I am not sure when; and in my case, if ever. But we will have to learn to live with it. That is just life. If you are a praying person, say one for me. I need it. Or just send me positive vibes from wherever you are. I know I shouldn’t, but I am blame-bearing and questioning whether I am a good mother. That is my cross to bear right now. I can only pray that healing of my mind comes quickly
