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By Mark Devonish
I remember it like if it were yesterday. The ghastly imagery, a reflection of what our country was reduced to. No one was safe. Absolutely no one. Not even the sitting Minister Satyadeow Sawh, Minister of Agriculture. For his death was gruesome. Macabre. Repugnant. Predictable. Predictable for grotesque had become the norm. Fourteen years and still unsolved this homicide. Forensics nonexistent then as now. Neighbourly witnesses scared stiff into selective mutism. But there are theories. Bucketloads of theories. But only one prevailed. A drug lord, not short on cash, was after interior land to construct runways. Runways for his airplanes bursting at the seams with narcotics. As Minister of Agriculture, Satyadeow Sawh had to provide his seal of approval. Declined bravely, he did. A massive NO to the powerful drug lord with FARC connections. A first for the kingpin with an army of deadly phantom squads. Unwittingly, his own death warrant he signed with his blood. And payback was swift. Deadly. A slug from an AK47 took fragments of his skull along with blood stained brain matter; both delivered to the living room wall. For death took over his body before he could have blinked. Brutal death delivered by assassins in balaclava. For four were in the Minister’s house. And four given appointments with the undertakers. All witnesses exterminated as the police conveniently slept. Sister, brother and security guard. Lead took up permanent residence in their rigor mortis bodies. Dead men tell no tales. Neither do dead women.
Blood on the dance floor
PPP hated both Mark the person and the persona. And all too aware of the consequences was I. Life and limbs were in mortal danger, I knew. For their record speaks for itself. A criminal cabal they are, capable of unleashing on my person, deadly violence. But despite this troubling outlook, hesitant I was to get outside their sphere of political influence. For inexplicably, I remained until this harrowing and nightmarish experience. And this execrable experience of 2002 unequivocally forced my procrastinating hand. For then I was a baby doctor manning an uninhabited ER. And with the rarity of an untenanted trauma room, I unburdened onto my consultation chair. Pensive I became, aimlessly gazing in the distant with eyes focused but mind vertiginously wandering. But even in this nonthreatening and tranquil environ, my senses steadfastly were on high circumspection. A perdurable state of qui vive, for that was inescapable under PPP. Then unexpectedly my halcyon was unceremoniously punctuated. Punctuated by four PPP bigwigs who permeate my cogitative space. Dr Madan Rambarran, former Medical Director. Mr Michael Khan, former CEO. Dr Bheri Ramsaran, former Minister of Health. Ronald Gajraj, former Minister of Home Affairs and Phantom Squad Associate counted fourth. For their presence was unsolicited. Very unusual an apt description. Very very unusual does reflect the rarity. For highly unusual it was. And their gratuitous poltergeist did trigger my cerebral cognitive dashboard. Flashing red of danger forewarned that something was amiss. For their picture fitted that cliche of a thousand words. Nervous their demeaner. Very nervous. Wringing of hands nervous. Nail biting nervous. Tachycardia nervous. And then without anticipatory augury a dramatic transformation overcame the overpowering ambience. For it phenotypically bore the hallmarks of a Freedom House inspired compulsion. And it was this Marxian compulsion that triggered the magical defrosting of their ice freezing silence. Deadly shooting in Kitty was painfully muttered. Natoo’s Bar whispered to provide clarity. Then a nervous smile. A robotic smile overtook their faces. For these clownish smiles were directed at me. A friend I now counted. For the time I assisted their friends’ resuscitations. And not a second longer. But professionalism flow through my veins. I saw those on their way as patients. Not political adversaries. Can’t say the same of my newly imposed friends. For celebrated they heartlessly did when innocent black men, murdered by their phantom squad, were unceremoniously dumped on the bloodied ER beds.
Then there was a hustle and great bustle at the ER entrance as multiple SUVs brakes screeched. The main double door burst opened. Hollywood style. The dead accompanied the living. Both transported like bags of potatoes. Dignity clearly foreign to this lot. With this level of chaos an all nighter was all but certain. But two hands I have. True for most doctors. Only one can be assessed at any given time. Triage the tool exploited. ATLS our holy grail.
A glance the assessment of the lifeless. The dead is dead. Injuries evidently too severe to have survived. Or revived. Absolutely no return ticket. Time not squandered trying to reverse the inevitable at the expense of those with a chance. Then my medical eyes systematically, gracefully and thoughtfully surveyed those with life threatening injuries. Vital signs at ready as they were taken through primary survey while simultaneously receiving intravenous life saving treatment. For prognosis was good in this cohort. Very good but will likely go under the knife followed by a few days of rescue breaths on the iron lung. And the third cohort. The walking wounded. Maybe a few surgical sutures. Maybe a few scans. Maybe a few blood test. Maybe a drip and they are good to go. Good to go narrate their stories to either of the two daily sensationalist tabloids. But that night, in the walking wounded cohort, was a racing car driver. Was earlier looked over by more seasoned eyes as he coherently orated. Classed he was as walking wounded. So a secondary eye was I. But now his vocal cords were lazily immobile. No breathing. No pulse. No pupil reactions. No response to painful stimuli. White as a sheet the visual. Ice cold the tactile. A deceased I just examined. Gavin Narine his name. And on that dark windy night, a total of four took bullets to their graves. All four were accepted with the same equanimity. Saw too many so desensitised was I.
PPP Failed State
At home in the dark room I reflected. Rumination inescapable. Human life in Guyana is cheap. Dispensable. All it took is an enemy. A loaded gun. And the daisy you are smelling at the root. By now I had seen enough. For soon after that ER horror drama, I was out. In the dead of night, I was out. In the dead of night with full beams piercing the dark, I was out. Taken out by the aerial steel bird. Getaway I did from the murderous and narco-driven PPP. And by the time they awoke. I had already disembarked. Sipping tea at the Green Parrot. For under PPP, Guyana was reduced to a narcostate. A murderous state. A Corrupt state. A state that declined the DEA. A state of pervasive discrimination. Victimisation. Money laundering. Human trafficking. Human rights abuses. Murders. Undemocratic. A 23 yrs dark state. A failed state. America’s enemy.
The dawn of a new era under
Then 2015. A new chapter. A completely new book. A rewritten plot. Genesis? Clueless. Probably the flip of a switch. Likely the inked index finger. No extrajudicial killings. No Government Minister murdered. The tracts of corruption significantly eroded. Our backs worn from America’s complimentary pats. They counted us as friends. Likewise we did. And from the EU blacklist we were removed. Tax evaders were expropriated. Drug lords were extradited. Our American friend valued us. The DEA armed with sophisticated technology were invited in to pinpoint the drug lords. And from every crack and crevice their nefarious stratagems were exposed. Lumber. Prawn. Shrimp. Fish. Chowmein. Rice and many more. Our health indices were improving. Infrastructure development inspiring. Social and racial cohesion rehabilitating. Companies in long queues ready for investing. Record economic growth forecasting. A decade of development in the making. That was not to be because of our oil. Oil attracts big fishes. America.
Regime change in Guyana
America want our oil. And that they will get by any means necessary. Two options were on their political table. Their enemy in the murderous and narco-trafficking PPP or their angelic friend in APNU+AFC. It was clearly an easy decision for them. America has no permanent friends or enemies. Only interest. Henry Kissinger. Regime change the decision made in Washington. Regime change they forced. It is easier to control the crime family with a constant threat of jail hanging over their heads. Any disobliging subterfuge and General Manuel Noriega’s cell awaits them. Criminal charges heaped on them faster than those fabricated for President Nicolas Maduro. And with that our oil was siphoned off to America as the crime family enjoy their freedom to victimized and harassed. For American politicians and Oil Executives flew in private jets. Texan Billionaires they are. Rex Tillerson, a former CEO of ExxonMobil. Transitioned he did to Trump’s Secretary of State. Oil baton he passed on to Mike Pompeo. Our oil, birth regime change. Regime change that will benefit America and Exxon.
Regime change in America
It is without doubt that President Trump will go down in history as the worse America President ever. Worse than James Buchanan, and he was bad. Everything he lay his hands on, he destroyed. He destroyed America’s economy. Obama’s economy. He destroyed racial cohesion. He destroyed America’s standing on the Global Stage. Global Leaders relegated to Global Lackeys. He destroyed America’s Human rights record, dragging crying babies from their mothers and locking them away in cages. He destroyed America’s relationship with her Allies. He inexplicably withdrew America from the WHO at the time of a pandemic. He took America out of the Paris Accord. He destroyed the Iranian deal, coming inches away from war. He started an economic war with China for which his farmers paid a heavy economic price. He mismanaged the Covid pandemic. More than 260,000 now lie in Covid graves. More than 12 million once had the virus in their bodies. Some in their lungs. He destroyed America’s democracy. North Korea made a mockery of him. Putin puppet he will forever be. With such a deplorable end of term report, President Trump knew that Nov 2020 will be an uphill task. But a saving grace proposition was whispered in his ear. Capitalise on the Covid he shockingly mismanaged. Have a Covid vaccine before election. Be seen as a celebrated wartime President in the eyes of the gullible. That done and a 2nd term would have been in the back pocket of the impeached one. And with that President Trump placed all his electoral eggs in one vaccine basket. Operation Warp Speed. The operation to have Covid vaccines in the arms of all adult Americans. The operation to save his flagging Presidency. The operation that will end his Presidency. But he did boast of all this at his Covid super spreader rallies. Covid is going away. Covid vaccines will be in your arms before the election. Never count your chickens before they are hatched. Counted Mr. President did. But Election Day drew closer. Vaccines data remained frozen in the labs. President Trump frantically made calls. But unknown to him, internal forces wanted him out. Wanted him out like yesterday. An unmitigated disaster he is. The Republicans obstructionists to 25th Amendment. He must be stopped for the better of him, the country and the rest of the World. And the ball was in the internal forces’ court. No vaccine. No Election win. Regime change for his Covid vaccine as he orchestrated for our oil.
Trump dislikes the taste of his own bitter medicine
Now the once omnipotent American President is imprisoned in his White House. In self imposed exile he gulps down litres of sodas, gorging on cartoons of crips, viewing hours of TV, feverishly tweeting conspiracies as thousands of Americans drop dead in the Covid streets. And those tweets. Most are instantly wiped away by twitter. Mountainous lies on their fingers. But then the expected happened. Counted a few days after the election. Yes a few days after the election. The pharmaceutical companies were offloading freezer loads of potential election changing pharmaceutical data. The kind of data that would have kept him in the West Wing. By now too much for POTUS soul. And for this, depression welcomed him with opened arms. Lost interest in dying his hair. Lost interest in his work. Lost interest in his favourite media friends. In a dark room he remained. Deluded and irrational. And so in a kind of poetic justice, the once powerful President who unjustifiably forced regime change on Guyana, is struggling now that it has been stamped along with impeached, in his political passport. Regime Change. Proceed no further Mr. President. Please exit the Commander in Chief Mansion. Thanks to the invisible hands. Thanks to those internal forces. And those internal forces? Many theories abound. Only one gained Newton type traction. Mr Granger’s prayers are finally being answered. Thou shalt not touch the Lord’s anointed- Psalm 105:15
