I RECALL my time at the University of Guyana. As student activists, we were enthused and motivated after Politics 110 classes, lectured by Frederick Kissoon and Aubrey Norton. Being subjected to academic instructions about the likes of Jean-Paul Satre and being regaled about the heroism of Walter Rodney was certainly bound to have some effect on the average mind. This led to many of us being part of numerous activities geared to changing something on campus and by extension, in the country; and Lord knows there was much to change. This was not easy, from a mere physical standpoint. The internet was not pronounced at that time; technology was not ubiquitous. It required a Herculean effort to mobilise support and enlighten persons about the issues you wished to highlight.

All of this came to bear in 2003, when the biggest struggle of our university lives visited us. The execution of Yohance Douglas by rogue members of the Guyana Police Force, clearly directed by the repressive political directorate, represented our moment of Bob Marley’s call to see who the real revolutionary is. From the outset, we had to meet to discuss the issue: there was no Whatsapp or Email group. On Sunday, leaving your homes to catch public transportation was no easy feat. We planned protest action with physical meetings; cyber-meetings were not possible. We had to walk the entire university campus in the glaring sun to convince persons about our cause and persuade them to march with us; a Facebook page would have sufficed, but the internet was not widespread. I wish I could have tagged the police commissioner, the minister of home affairs and those in authority who presided over the system. Instead, we had to write letters and deliver in hard copy with no guarantee of a response. I would have loved to take our struggle global by taking it to Twitter and connecting with Amnesty International and more, connecting with millions and numerous groups that fought against extra-judicial killings; but we had to settle for the old-school, tiring activism.

Today, cyber-armchair activists enjoy these luxuries. They don’t even have to leave their comfy abodes and they could spark a revolution with just a hashtag. When our marches for justice for Yohance commenced, we walked from the University of Guyana every day for one week to Brickdam Police Station, over to the Office of the President, then we proceeded to Eve Leary. Gruelling journeys to these locations under the unforgiving sun. Our feet got corns and calluses; we were thirsty, the bullhorns were difficult to carry and we were exposed to danger in a time of death squads and “Phantoms,” under the aegis of a murderous cabal that held control over the state apparatus.

Today, I call your attention to movements such as the Arab Spring. When Mohammed Bouazizi set himself on fire in December 2010 in Tunisia and openly challenged the Ben Ali regime, within hours, the internet propelled a regional revolution. I ooze with envy when I think what we could have achieved if we were endowed with Twitter, Facebook, Instagram or WhatsApp. Maybe we would have succeeded in our calls for justice.

My grudge for the modern activist, who has to do less work to advocate a cause in comparison to the time when technology was not a readily available tool at the disposal of activists, does not only rest with this fact. It also includes the fact that in Guyana’s present governance context, the issues of the day are child’s play when compared to what we faced. From bullets, tear gas, executions, murder, to the biggest issue being the President needs to face the press more; if I were currently an activist, I would have been bored.