My father, the hero

Jul 27, 2008 News

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By Leonard Gildarie
It was an emotional event. I saw the tears in the woman’s eyes and remembered those in my mother’s eyes almost 28 years ago.

The woman led her son by the hand to the front of the monument, and watched as he laid a wreath in memory of his father. I briefly wondered if he understood the event.

Little Mark’s father, Constable Shane Fredericks, was killed along with three other policemen when gunmen attacked the Bartica Police Station in February.

The tears on the face of Poonawattie Persaud, his mother, told the tale all too clearly. “Why me? Why us?” she seemed to be asking.

Last Sunday, for the third time, I attended the police’s annual ceremony at Eve Leary, where fallen ranks are remembered.

My brother, who was invited, could not make it, as he was called to duty. So I was once again nominated to take his place.

My father, Lakhram Sukdeo, regulation # 10510, was killed in January 1980 while on a security watch at the GPL substation located at Sheriff and David Streets, where the new Railway Embankment is now. He was attacked, and during retaliation was stabbed. His gun was taken away.

The ceremony is always a touching affair to me. For the police ranks, it is the loss of a colleague, a friend, a brother.

For the families, it represents lives torn apart; children never knowing their fathers, families always crying out for justice.

This week I contemplated penning my feelings on the event, because of its significance to me and the emotions it raised.

I was torn between writing, since it is never easy placing one’s private life in the public, though, ironically, that is what we as the media do all the time, and maintaining my peace.

I remembered all too vividly January, 1980. I was at school, a mere six-year-old lad attending Enmore Primary School.

My uncle came on his bicycle at around midday and collected my brother, Desmond, and me. I recalled at that time thinking it was strange since school was not yet over.

Although the memories of that day remain a little vague, I seem to recall being told that something had happened to my father. We were staying by my grandparents’ home in Enmore.

My father and mother lived in Turkeyen, but my brother, Desmond, and I attended school in Enmore. I guess it was a traditional thing for the family to be attending that school.

I cannot remember the funeral much, except that the police give my father a 21-gun salute as a farewell to a fallen comrade.

I could remember also the funeral procession as it wended its way to the Cove and John cemetery. I could remember the rain.

In 1980, it was difficult to purchase cement, because of supplies. Somehow, the police were able to get a few bags for the tomb.

As the years rolled on, it was not unusual for someone to come and rub my head and express sorrow about my father’s death. My mother, though silently suffering, was a rock of strength for us.

Although a number of persons were arrested and placed before the courts, there was not enough evidence and they were released. Police later said that they killed the two men during encounters.

Every year, on Father’s Day, my brother and I would attempt to visit the grave site and do some cleaning.
For the first few years, I know my mom was really depressed back then. She would take longs walks with us to the beach at Enmore.

I believe she still has some of the police uniform as keepsakes. I remember wearing one of his shirts, a blue one, to work.

Fortunately for me, my mom met someone a few years after my father’s death, and I never really felt as if my father had died.

We have a sister now, and although we live apart now, there has never been a time more than now when I feel that my family is truly complete, because my father is watching down and he sent us an angel in the form of a new father.

Last Sunday, as I stood and listened to the solemn notes of the “Last Post”, I knew that not many families would have been as fortunate as mine to be able to move on.

I heard Minister Clement Rohee give his speech, and listened to the promise of Commissioner Henry Greene to get justice for the families of policemen who lost their lives in their prime.

Between 1913 and 2008, police records indicate, some 54 ranks were killed in the line of duty. 30 of these policemen died after 2000.

After the ceremony, my colleague at the Kaieteur News, Dale Andrews, introduced me to the wife of Harry Kooseram, who was killed in an ambush in 2002 at Strathspey Public Road, East Coast Demerara.

Kooseram’s younger daughter was one of the top CSEC and CAPE students, and is at the University of Guyana studying medicine. The teenager, according to her mother, became even stronger after her father’s death. This may have been the main factor in her performing so well.

The achievements of the children of other policemen who were directly affected by the crime wave have not gone unnoticed.

The daughter of Corporal Gregory Brusche, who was shot in the head during the crime wave and lost his sight, was outstanding at last year’s Secondary Schools Entrance Examinations.

As I stood there, I wondered how many more families would be torn apart because of senseless killings; how many would have the strength to recuperate. Some of the mothers had had to start working to ensure the children had a chance. It is never easy.

The wreath-laying ceremony, no doubt, is significant. The police must be commended for initiating such an event, and while it can never be enough, it is a start.

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