The Brazilian Embassy and the cycle of life in Guyana

Jul 02, 2013 Features / Columnists, Freddie Kissoon

One of the things for which I will forever remember Forbes Burnham and his PNC and Cheddi Jagan and his PPP was their genuine, sincere efforts to regulate the power of colour and class in Guyanese society. Burnham and a wide range of leaders in the PNC after Independence dedicated themselves to moving Guyana away from the white hegemonic society it was prior to Independence.
Georgetown’s commercial world was not only dominated by the mercantile Portuguese and European class but their elitism and apartheid mentality permeated Guyana. Take Courida Park. It was an upper class Portuguese enclave. A dark-skinned UG professor, Rudolph James and his Nigerian wife, another professor, decided to build a house there. The protectors of apartheid in Guyana attempted to run James out. The campaign was led by a man who owned a company selling sewing machines.
I am a personal friend of Rudy James and would like to go on record and say that he is one of the finest sons this country has produced.
In British Guiana, all the banks, insurance companies, and business houses were dominated by light complexioned employees. You didn’t stand a chance of social elevation if you were dark-skinned. I know Burnham was mad about that. Burnham never forgave the light-complexioned class for rejecting him when he applied for membership of the League of Coloured People (for more on this incident, see Mohan Ragbeer, “The Indelible Red Stain.”).
If you were Hindu or Muslim, you had to change to a Christian name. That is why my brothers were given Christian first names – Harold and Joseph. My cousin’s last name is Cox. His grandfather had to make the change.
Burnham is dead, Jagan is dead, Franz Fanon is dead, CLR James is dead, ASCRIA is dead and Eusi Kwayana has long left Guyana and the cycle of life when class and colour owned Guyana has returned.
Arnold Toynee, the celebrated historian of the 20th century said that civilization is about cycles. What was with us two hundred years ago will return. I have done two columns in which I asked the Guyanese people to look at the faces in advertisements in both the electronic media and the print media. Almost 98 percent were of very light complexion. Almost 98 percent were absolutely non-African.
I saw a placement in the newspaper where a firm was advertising popsicles. All seven children were either Caucasian or lily white. None were African.
What I saw on Church Street last Saturday night has convinced me that Toynbee was not only right but phenomenally accurate in his analysis. Every year at this time, the Brazilian Embassy sponsors some kind of exotic affair. I really don’t know what it is but I got caught in its vehicular vortex three years ago. I had hoped that experience never happened again but Saturday night I lived the nightmare again. This time the torture was longer.
Driving east on Church Street at 22:00 hours, I couldn’t tell there was confusion ahead. As I passed New Garden Street, I ran into it. From about ten yards east of New Garden Street, vehicles were literally parked in the middle of Church Street and Peter Rose Street. People were in and outside their cars just chatting while the line waiting to pass was stretching longer.
Young lovers of a certain time of class society were making a mockery of civilization in Guyana. They were in the middle of the road just doing their thing. This was Guyana elitism on display. All, not most, but all the attendees were either middle class or upper middle class. Their vehicles were blocking the roads. There wasn’t even one traffic rank in sight.
It was getting late and I know my wife and daughter because of my security problem would get worried. After half an hour in the line waiting to go home, I called 911. No answer. I called traffic at Brickdam, no answer. I called traffic at Kitty, no answer. I have all those numbers stored in my cell phone. I kept repeating the calls but for that night those traffic offices had either closed or were on strike.
Colonial society has returned to Guyana. Go next Saturday night to the fish shop on Hadfield Street or any working class district where a party is on and parked cars block the road and you will see not only traffic ranks but Black Clothes policemen in full battle dress as if there is a state of emergency.
The Brazilian Embassy will do it again next year. After all, this is Guyana, God’s forgotten land. I leave you with French saying that came out of the rebellion of the sixties. “God is dead, Marx is dead and I’m not feeling too well myself.”

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The Brazilian Embassy and the cycle of life in Guyana

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