Dear Editor,
“Now is the time when we must all give a little more for our freedom, we must care a little more for our people, we must sacrifice a little more for the greater good of our Nation and her future.”
— Dr. Cheddi Jagan, 1992
When Cheddi Jagan issued that call in 1992, Guyana was clawing its way out of the rubble of economic ruin. His “give a little more” was not a slogan—it was a covenant. It meant rice farmers rising before dawn, nurses walking to work in broken shoes, public servants accepting small wages for the promise of rebuilding. It was a people’s plea for national resurrection, anchored in humility, honesty, and service.
Three decades later, those same words are being resurrected by the very party he built for the protection of the poor—but this time as a prop. Used today by a government basking in the glow of oil wealth, the phrase becomes a clever deceit, a moral costume draped over obscene prosperity. The call to “sacrifice a little more” now rings hollow in a country where ministers acquire mansions faster than citizens can pay rent, where the “freedom” invoked is the freedom of a few to monopolize the nation’s bounty.
Between 2020 and 2024, Guyana’s economy transformed at a pace unseen in its history—over 40% growth year after year. The world praised it as the fastest-growing nation on earth. But inside our borders, the architecture of privilege expanded even faster. The same companies, the same family networks, the same inner circles repeatedly surfaced in billion-dollar contracts for roads, bridges, and hotels—while ordinary Guyanese watched from the roadside, searching for the promise that oil was supposed to bring.
By 2025, Transparency International confirmed what every market vendor and minibus driver already knew: Guyana had become a case study in “elite capture.” A score of 39 on the Corruption Perceptions Index, then a meagre 40 the year after—symbolizing not progress but paralysis. The watchdog’s newest report speaks of state intimidation of media and the silencing of dissent—an echo of the very authoritarianism our founders fought to reject.
And then came the so-called Billionaire Budget of 2026: a staggering $1.558 trillion, justified as “transformational.” Yet within that transformation lies the quiet betrayal. $315 billion for transport and infrastructure, a mere $5,000 added to old age pensions—instantly erased by inflation. The scale of wealth is awe-inspiring, but awfully-shocking is the stain of moral decay. In the age of oil, the government preaches austerity to the poor while practicing opulence in private. “Sacrifice,” once a virtue, has been twisted into a smokescreen for taking more while giving less.
Even the Natural Resource Fund—our supposed savings for future generations—has become an open tap. Of its $3.7 billion, two-thirds will be drained in a single year. Economists warn of a coming “Dutch Disease,” but the illness is already visible: inflated costs, deepening inequality, and a social ethos where greed masquerades as growth.
Cheddi Jagan’s socialism was never about scarcity—it was about fairness. It asked of leaders not grandeur but discipline; not applause but accountability. To quote him in defense of excess is to invert his legacy entirely. It is not continuity—it is corruption wrapped in nostalgia.
We stand today not at the dawn of a people’s economy but under the weight of a corporate state—a government of billionaires claiming the language of the poor. This is not the socialism of Jagan; it is the sanctified capitalism of those who learnt that patriotism can be profitable when performed with just the right sentiment.
So when they repeat his words—“give a little more for our freedom”—understand what they really mean: give up your scrutiny, give up your outrage, and let the rich give nothing at all. But freedom, real freedom, demands the opposite. It demands that we expose the deception, reclaim the vision, and remind the nation that authenticity cannot be imported or purchased—it must be lived, tested, and earned
Regards
Hemdutt Kumar
