Protests – a panorama of Guyanese people on the move

Jun 19, 2022 Letters

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Dear Editor,

It was another day of patient protest at the Square of the Revolution. This is fast becoming Guyana’s Hyde Park, its open-air cathedral of chants, a broad, flat coliseum for the concerns of citizens to be expressed in quiet voice, steadfast presence, rock-ribbed resolve. It had to be about oil, for what else is there? And when the placards and the people assembled are about oil, then it has to be about leaders not living up to expectations, of citizens holding on to hopes, and those courageous enough to say this moment is for me and mine. About what should be done, so that we can get.
Under the expanse of a sky sometimes high, other times low canopied vault, there is the reflection of a kaleidoscope of human expression, a canvas of sweeping lines and arcs and swirls. Those gathered project a certain grimness of purpose, a deep solemnity, of a duty embraced out of necessity, because it doesn’t come easy. They form a line not straight line flawless, but a line that holds like frozen soldiers caught in a web of time that is unmoving. When the line does move, it is to hold a tad more aloft, somewhat more firmly, the painted messages proudly carried across chests held in defiance against leaders, foreigners, predators, cheaters, deniers, and scorners. At unscheduled intervals, movement from the protestors is to travel and trace a loose circle, more like an uneven oval, that covers a fair city block. Then it is back to their places, and their standstill pace of defiant silhouetted protest.
This most ordinary of Guyanese company of the protesting has been graced with the wheelchair bound, a citizen with a missing leg, the young, the not so young, the energetic looking, and the definitely frail. Passersby in their cars and SUVs may notice their scarcity of solid numbers, but none, not even the President, can find fault with their ferocity of spirit. Who are these people? Why are they even there in the first place, particularly when they have other places to go, and other things to do? It is the presence of this oil, and the promise of which they are determined must not elude the sweeping seines of their dreams. What has happened elsewhere must not be our lot, so they fight the fight of the brave. They may be under strength in these first hours and days, but there is no sign that they are overwhelmed by either the moment, or what could be interpreted as the overpowering demands of their undertaking. They will not falter, nor will they relent. In this time of oil, it is their time to stand up and be counted, no matter the magnitude of the task, the longshot nature of the odds. Longer odds have been overcome, where there is the will.
Across the road to the west, there are tall billboards selling the NBA, Coca Cola time, Birkenstock, and Hennessey brandy. The foreign invasion of Guyana is fully underway, with the Americans in the forefront, and the Europeans right in the mix. Leaders in the Guyana Government are the ones best positioned to partake of the largely American fare, with the only man missing is the one with the top hat and umbrella, the Scotsman, Johnnie Walker. The protest on the other side of the busy street marches to its own rhythm, its ceaseless clock.
Under the shadow of these towering capitalist advertisements, there is that real picture of Guyanese in constant motion. Of traffic constantly clustering around lengthy traffic lights policing what is nothing less than a four cornered convergence. People stop and stare, the friendlier wave an occasional hand in wan greeting, the politically committed and accounted for, peer straight ahead, so as not to be tainted by the weakness of momentary curiosity. Not too many want to be seen identifying publicly with what political higher-ups may mutter under their breath to be none but subversives. Along the dangerous white lines separating rushing vehicular traffic, young and older adults hawk ‘coconut biscuits’ and air fresheners for cars, and God knows what else in their daily struggles to make a living of some sort. What they make and how they make out is anybody’s guess. It can’t be a prospering existence, a rewarding endeavour. It is an honest one, though, which is something that can never be said of leaders.
As I observe these almost surreal paintings of oil Guyana, there is nothing abstract about any of this; but of the impressionistic lessons imprinted, let be there no doubt. Yes, it is a partial panorama of the Oil Age of Guyana, and already it is a painful one. I wonder if there is any of this in the UAE. Or any Sultanate. Or one of those so endowed places that got their money’s worth, and made sure that all their people sweetly felt it.

Sincerely,
GHK Lall

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