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By Dr Mark Devonish
The usual suspects. The usuals culprits. The usual accused. The usual terrorist. The usual aggressors. The usual villains. The usual loose canons. Though only in their eyes. Minds. Thoughts.
Thus, the long suffering victims. The beaten downtrodden. The painfully persecuted. The defenceless abused. Yet Gandhian are they. Passive resistance. In their eyes. Minds. Thoughts. Angels amongst devils. Roses amongst thorns. Good amongst evil.
So two we deconstruct. A known two. Spoken of. Written on. Listened to. Two revisionist historians. Two bigots of prejudice. One of the Broken Arrowhead. Vishnu Bisram. Lays claim to 10 PhDs. Yet none for Freddie Kissoon. Greed. Selfish. Glutton.
And his twin. Child of Kamla Persad- Bissessar. Two razored tongues. That lacerated our ancestors. The Indians single-handedly built Guyana and Trinidad. Thus, the rationale we awaited. The evidence. But none was forthcoming. For none existed. The Black slaves did no work for 400yrs. Only parties and orgies. Drunken. Took to the seas. Drowned. Millions. Raped themselves. Beat themselves. Hanged themselves. And those keloid scars. Masochistic spankings and orgasmic love bites. Their choice. Their lies.
But there was more. From the lover of telepathic polling. Why only recognition of Black slaves? For the Indians were also enslaved. Perplexing! So transitioned doctor. Assessed his pupils. Forehead. Hands. Speech. In search of evidence. Confident he must have taken multiple stupefying drugs. But he wasn’t. He was just another racist. Birthed at the dining table.
For this we know. British Indians. Were Indentured Labourers. A choice. Paid. Kept their names. Culture. Religion. Weren’t raped. Beaten. Murdered. Dumped into the sea. Weren’t property. Weren’t dehumanised. Wasn’t slavery.
Friend to fiend
Thus, this to illuminate. Of the known unknown. Dr. Vindhya Persaud. Medical School batch mate. Good friend. Very good friend. For she counted me a brother. She a sister. Two totally different. Two totally the same. For outspoken was I. Annoyingly so. Expressed opinions unimpeded. On anyone. Anything. Unknown. Then that birthday. Registered 21. Of which she heard. With intrigue. Then expressed. You remind me of my younger sister. Personality wise. Wise. For you two share a birthday. 31st May. The genesis. Her enigma. Now her brother. Blinded to race.
But many misunderstood. Thus, misunderstood the misunderstood. Her pony tail driver counted. Such that when chauffeuring. Revisionist history exited his lips. Until interrupted. Fearless of fear. Unafraid the power was his. To drive me into the seas. To meet my ancestors.
But even in political turmoil. Our friendship remained undiluted. A unique friendship. Unbreakable in 1997. Unshakable in 1997. For angered she was with the protestors. So labelled them terrorists. Thieves. Rapists. Nevertheless, my ears she had. For this good speaker also spoke with his ears. Thereafter, my opinion was hers. That unique friendship. Our friendship. That remained unwavering. My sister. A loved sister.
Then election 2020. Changed all. For PPP invaded GECOM with guns. Upturning tables. Seizing computers. Threatening staff. Surely by her standards they must be terrorists. Thereafter ECD. Protesters burnt. Blocked thoroughfares. Assaulted all. Police. Many hospitalised with serious injuries. Brandished guns at the tired innocent. Brutally attacked school buses. Children. Many hospitalised. Awaited their comforting. But were confounded. My big sister. Dr.Vindhya Persaud et al, rewarding the attackers. The terrorists. Provided shoulders to drain their eyes. Offered Su support. For in their eyes, our children lives don’t matter. Never childbirth. Never child love. Never police love. Never victim love. Loveless. For the perpetrators were they. Thus victims. Of which Mark Philip concurred. If only they knew they are slaves…Harriet Tubman.
Terrorist in high places
Then this. A rarity. An academic mediocrity of title excellency. The terrorist who mislabels terrorists. Pot Kettle Black Syndrome. Thus, no reminder needed. Nevertheless, will be provided. Dr. Karen Cummings. Minister of Foreign Affairs. Being chauffeured to Pegasus Hotel. But faced a mob. A riotous crowd. Two academic mediocrities. One once all things oil. Now stripped down to balls. The second thinly bearded. Evil eyes behind intimidating sunglasses. Blood red cap concealed menaced face. Facies of a terrorist. That terrorised the female Minister. Fear that had her shaking. But he careless. Terrorist rarely ever do. So he escalated. Threatened to shake her out of the vehicle. But the stoic Minister stood her ground. An unyielding descendant of Victoria slaves. So the threat spiralled. To turn-turtle the vehicle. Thus, of Mark Philips. His attention we seek. Was that protest? A number 2 of 2 braincells. Identifies Black. But registered Token. Skin but not kin.
Thus, tales from the crypt. From the bowels of Pegasus Hotel. A Spiritual Token. And his 30 pieces of silver gang. Inches away from President Granger. But unbothered he was. Looked them straight in the eye, assertively apprising the Christian terrorist- Greater is she in me than he in you. The Devil!
For we concurred. The vendors shouldn’t have been visited with violence. Neither should’ve we. Thus, Mr. Norton’s condemnation was most welcomed. But a painful contrast. PPP rewarded their terrorists when we faced the sword.
For unashamedly discriminatory they are. Providing compensation to Mon Repos. IN MINUTES. To replenish that lost. Real and unreal. But Quinton Bacchus life could never be replenished. In fact, another election is registered for 2025 or earlier. But Quinton Bacchus wouldn’t have another registered life. The finality of death. Replacables are replaceable. But a lost life dies a lost life. Death of many deaths. But such reasoning is beyond the academic mediocrity. For he placed greater value on shacks and shallots. Than on Quinton Bacchus’ life. BLM. Angering the angered! The victims’ victimised. The denied discrimination. The Public Servants fired with fury. The Sugar Workers billions towering the Public Sector Workers pittance. The farmers billions. The Covid-19 grant denials. Nevertheless, with this they stand reliable. Bullets. Deaths. Pains. Tears. Our young black men. Orin Boston. Peter Headley. Henry boys. Sherwin Filley. Quinton Bacchus et al. Won Guyana. Their homophone. Our message. Won with a lost election. Won Guyana. So theirs to give. Excluding us. Won Guyana. So our lives theirs. So theirs to take.
For Freddie Kissoon, burdened by intellectual myopia, argued that Indian Lives Matter. And most certainly we concur, but equally support the position that a PhD thesis, free of plagiarism, also matters. Thus, the warning. Continue this dark path, and bloods of another race war, will stain our streets.