25 years for Kaieteur News; 16 days in jail for me

Mar 31, 2019 Features / Columnists, The Story within the Story

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By Leonard Gildarie

What I am about to say is deeply personal. I have not spoken to my family or my colleagues at work about bringing this out. If fact, very few of my colleagues even knew about this side of me.
I was not even sure Friday night while tapping away at the keyboard at home where this would lead.
There were, however, a few things clear in my mind. I wanted to talk about it. I want to scream about it to the world. I had nothing to be ashamed of.

The decision was spurred by an announcement two weeks ago by Publisher of Kaieteur News, Glenn Lall.
Kaieteur News is celebrating 25 years in existence on Thursday, April 4th, and he wanted to do something. There will be no politicians. Just staffers and a few friends.
The newspaper, which has become the largest in circulation across the country, building a reputation for fearless reporting, has a sister company now, charged with bringing radio to the people along the coastlands.
Knowing Glenn, it will have a unique brand that will be synonymous with the style of the newspaper. I had helped with the application…no idea what I was doing, but it was approved.
I could not but help marvel at Kaieteur News and thought about my life and the journey that brought me here.
I had to tell my story about the personal sacrifices that come with the Fourth Estate.
I joined Kaieteur News over 12 years ago, and it has been a life-changing experience in every way. We will come back to my experiences.
In 1999, I joined Stabroek News. I wanted a job and there was a position for a reporter. I quickly learnt to how to be competitive, despite the small salary.
In the world of newspapers, getting your stories on the front page is an exhilarating, satisfying feeling. It is a drug you want to relive every day. I love exclusives.
However, just a short year at Stabroek News, I was offered a chance to work in Sint Maarten, a Dutch-overseas territory in the Caribbean that is a mere 37 square miles – two countries in one. A bored young man took the opportunity.
Within four years, I was partnering with a local on a weekly newspaper that was free. It was simple – get ads, cover your costs, keep them low and you are good. We were doing well. In fact, our hard-hitting stories were making the politicians sit up and take notice.
I was writing, selling ad space, editing, harassing my graphic artists, collecting money, distributing the newspaper…doing almost everything. We were making money too. People were loving it.

ARRESTED
One of the big stories I did was on a department store owned by an Indian businessman who was accused of locking up his workers in his building, working them long hours and paying them little. One worker whispered to me while I visited the store that he was being held prisoner.
The labour breaches were too many.
I was warned laughingly by a few politicians to be careful. I thought they were good fellows. Little did I know.
It all came crashing down in 2005. I had arranged an interview with the Commissioner of Police, a routine thing. I went to the central police station in Philipsburg, the capital on the Dutch side. While waiting to be buzzed in, an Immigration Officer I knew by sight approached me and asked me for my documents.
I thought he was joking. He was dead serious. I told him that the documents were being processed like everybody else and that I was awaiting for them to be processed, like the thousands of Guyanese and others who were working and living on the island.
He asked me to follow him.
I was told I was illegal. They asked me to empty my pockets. I looked around and saw many of the police officers gawking at the situation. I knew them. We worked crime scenes together. Quite a few of them lowered their eyes in shame.
I was thrust into a little cell that had the air conditioner jacked all the way up.
I stood there lost. What did I do?
My family and newspaper partner arrived shortly after. The police said that I was illegal and there was an option. I could stay in jail and fight it or buy a ticket and leave.
The cell was cold and mad thoughts swirled through my mind. I told them buy my ticket.
I left the same day back to Guyana. I was ripped from my family and business and friends. I was told that the government of the day was extremely angry because of our reports on work permits and labour infringements.
There was a big racket ongoing, involving thousands of dollars for immigrants who wanted to work in Sint Maarten. You pay the immigration folks and labour department and things are good.
In Guyana, I was impatient. I wanted to see my family and get back into business. I got myself a French visa and went back.
I kept quiet, and we applied for the permits. It was turned down.
After conferring with my lawyers, they said that I could apply as a manager for a company.
One of my dear friends invited me to work for him. He gave me one of his houses and said he would apply.
It was normal in 2006 for the Government to issue a work permit for managers. It was almost like an automatic thing. We applied and within months got back a reply. It was turned down. The lawyer, who took my case pro bono, advised that we write the Governor of the island.

ARRESTED AGAIN
We did not get reply. What I got instead was a visit from the same immigration officer who arrested me the first time at the workplace. My employer, a former policeman, cried and hugged me. I was handcuffed, taken to the police station, and placed in the lockups.
This time I was prepared to chuck it all in.
The government, however, had other plans. The police were ordered to charge me for breaching immigration laws.
In Sint Maarten, you are rarely allowed to be on bail. You stay in jail until your case is determined. The cell had about 20 persons, with one concrete bed. There were Guyanese, Jamaicans and others sleeping on the floor. A number of them were there for months without a trial. The toilet was a hole in the floor and shower in the same area.
For 16 days, I was in there. My wife was pregnant at the time. The newspapers were reporting the case. I was growing a beard.
The case was heard by two judges. There were questions about my arrest, and the prosecutor said it was the law…I had to be off-island while the documents were being processed.
It was all slow motion for me. The days were blurred. The judges agreed and then asked me a strange question.
“Were you testing the system Mr. Gildarie? This is indeed a strange and disturbing case.”
The case was dismissed and I was told to buy my ticket and leave Sint Maarten and apply from Guyana.
Having a pregnant wife meant nothing to the police or the court.
I was delighted. I wanted out of that hell-hole. I hugged my pregnant wife and mom and was placed in the back of a police SUV with a bag.
In the vehicle, the same immigration officer, whom I now figure to be a bouncer for the politicians, turned to me and asked whether I believed I could have “f&@ked” with system and gotten away with it. I stayed silent. We were alone in the vehicle.
At the airport, my little son, 6, was waiting. He cried. He knew I was leaving.
I came back to Guyana expecting the worst. However, there was no immigration waiting for me.
I was called by Stabroek News. I gave an interview and said that my lawyers are looking at the case.
A few months later, I received a call from Sint Maarten. It was an opposition leader. He wanted to know if I would return. He said that it was all a conspiracy to shut the newspaper up.
The government changed and I was again offered. I refused. Within weeks, it became news.
The Dutch government had launched an investigation into what they said was a huge work permit racket involving top law officials. They had been watching my case. A quiet investigation was launched.
The Commissioner of Police, Chief Immigration Officer, the Commissioner of Labour and others were arrested in a sweep. There were jail sentences and seizure of assets. I refused the politician’s offer to go back and live and to testify. I had lost faith.
My second son was born in Sint Maarten a few months after I was sent back. My wife and him came back.
In 2007, Glenn Lall wanted to know what the hell I was doing at home. I was running an internet café from home. He insisted I come in.

SACRIFICES
I went to a quiet newsroom at Kaieteur News. A year earlier, five pressmen had been executed while doing their job at the Eccles location. Glenn Lall insisted that the newspaper do its job.
My competitive spirit was awoken. Glenn Lall is not a man who took no for an answer and I was bored.
My troubles with Kaieteur News have been many. I did not care about the salary. I was doing what I loved. I was there when two Lexus that the Lalls were using were seized.
I was arrested at my home in Diamond when a carload of police came for me to question me about an infamous phone call with an attorney general.
We were investigating BaiShanLin, and Glenn Lall hired a helicopter for several days flying to Berbice and Region One. He would call and say ‘get to Ogle Airport in 30 minutes’.
Many, many times I stood and stories were raised about his friends and family. He would bow his head and sigh and say carry it.
This is probably the longest I have written for a Sunday piece for a while. It is 01:57hrs now on Saturday.
What can I say about Kaieteur News? We have been accused by both sides – the Government and the Opposition – of backing the other.
I am being asked constantly too. The answer is simple. I am really not sure. Today, it is the PPP, tomorrow it is the Coalition Government. Today, it is ExxonMobil, tomorrow it is Guyana Goldfields.
We have been handed a task – a mandate where choices are hard and true friends are few.
It all comes with the territory. We watched when columnist Freddie Kissoon had stuff thrown on him as a warning. We were accused even of being anti-investment.
As Kaieteur News celebrates 25 years, it has not been an easy time. Our country is at the crossroads. We are about to produce oil.
Glenn was a man who slept in Stabroek Market, bathing, eating there, battling his way in the streets, to rise to own the biggest newspaper. Is that what the Guyana dream is all about?
I really don’t know how long more I may be in the business. I do know that one little weekly newspaper that reported on some sweet stories has risen to become part of the history of this country. It would be hard to argue that it has not helped to shape this nation.
There is a lesson for us here. We each have a little role to play, however, little it is.

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