Latest update January 11th, 2025 3:15 AM
Apr 29, 2011 Features / Columnists, Freddie Kissoon
I got up early Wednesday morning. Fright and dread overtook my mind. Why this trepidation? I have spent all my life in struggle and after watching the PPP’s performance which is worse than the reign of Mr. Burnham, I should not be alarmed at any form of incompetence, perversity or wickedness that come from the leaders of this territory.
It is not the fear of being harmed. It is the sheer horror of having to wait in a line when there is so much waiting to be done in your life for the rest of the day.
I had to be up early Wednesday because visits had to be made to the Guyana Revenue Authority (GRA) and the Guyana Power and Light (GPL). No one is happy visiting these places. They tell the terrible story of a failed state in Guyana.
So up to the cashier room I went to pay my property tax and those for my wife and daughter. Readers will recall that Mr. Khurshid Sattaur (boss of GRA)) sent me nine property tax forms last year. I called him and asked him if the same has been sent to my colleagues at UG. He didn’t reply.
To date, none of my lecturer-friends received their forms. I guess when I entered the world of human rights struggle, I had to expect victimization.
The cashier room on the ground floor of the VAT building of the GRA has three wickets. All had cashiers, but only one attended to the public when I was there. After twenty minutes of waiting, a young lady with a black burka over her head and face took up her position. Next step was to submit the completed forms. I wasn’t going to throw my property tax and PAYE forms just like that in a dirty, besmirched, humongous box in a crowded room without proof that I made my submissions.
I believe evil has overtaken the administration of this country and I believe from the deep recesses of my mind that if I do not request a receipt for my form I will receive a notice saying I didn’t submit them and legal sanction will come into play. This is how dictatorship behaves.
I would suggest to all anti-government critics to demand proof of their tax submissions. I went into the public gallery where I joined a line. My attendant was Mr. Stephen Sankar. He issued the receipts and stamped them. In front of him I measured the waiting room where the public is served.
It is a cramped “hole” measuring 11 feet by seven feet. I asked Mr. Sankar how the GRA can accommodate the public in that small space. He looked at me with vacant eyes. I asked Mr. Sankar for the name and telephone number of the GRA officer in charge of the entire VAT building.
I made telephone contact with the office of Mrs. Hema Khan. Her secretary came down. The PR officer told me her name was Ross. I showed Ms. Ross the pathetic gallery that was provided for members of the public. She looked at me, smiled and went back from whence she came.
When that incommodious room is filled, you have to wait in a queue on Charlotte Street in the sun or in the rain. As I made my way into my car, a gentleman yelled out that it was contempt for the Guyanese people. I thought he was Christopher Columbus.
The GRA is a place I do not like to go to. The last time I was there was on media assignment for my column on the Mahaicony man, charged for tax evasion, who jumped into the creek and drowned. The GRA offices remind of everything that is politically tragic about this country.
As I gazed at the faces of the employees I saw the stench of the politics of “we time come, we pun top.” As you look back at the faces you saw in the mid-eighties, at what was known then as the income tax department, and those you see today, you come face-to-face with the ongoing tragedy of this sad land.
Next stop was GPL to pay my bill. With a never-ending line, there were only two cashiers. After half an hour in the line, my heart sank at the presence of déjà vu. Back in the eighties, you wait for hours at the GEC to pay your bill only to see the cashier put up the sign, “closed”. That happened to me last Wednesday, nineteen years after the PPP took control of my country.
Jan 11, 2025
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