Dear editor,

I AM the son of many races. I am he who was raised by a village on the East bank of the Essequibo. The Indian women who helped raise me, whom I admired and respected, who nourished and fed me, who loved me, are by extension, my mothers.

During the first nine years of my life I grew up in a village called Vergenoegen. My two best friends were Jamiel Osman and Lindon Phillips and we were inseparable. We played and joked a lot, sat in the same classroom, visited each other’s homes, and shared what we had. Lots of mischief… yeah, I said it. Lots of fun together. Lots of love.

Our parents were kind and loving. I remember Jamiel Osman’s soft-spoken mother, her kindness and love, admonishing both Jamiel and me when we messed up. Lindon Phillips’ mother was the same. Her smile comforted you. She liked to feed you. The village raised us, spoiled, but scolded us when we were bad.

Race did not matter. You messed up, you got it, from anyone … snatched at the wrist and even delivered home. Anyone could have done that and they did. Neighbour Khan, back bent from hard, honest labour, weeding, fetching rice at the rice mill, etc. always with a smile or a story for me.

The first nine years, those critical years of a child’s development, I lived in Markenday Street — a respectable, no-nonsense and very strict Indian store owner with a street named after him.

But let me tell you about the women other than my blood relatives who helped raise me.
To our left was neighbour Shirah, Zaimoon, Sun sun, Chull the barber.
To our right, neighbour Lucille, her sun Clement who drove a Vauxhaul Viva, took my mother anywhere between Vergenoegen and Vreed-en-hoop. He also mentored me, allowed his nephew and me to play in his car, and took us for drives to buy sweets and stuff.

Then across the street, in front of us, my favourite, she who cuddled, nozzled, rocked me to sleep in her hammock, and fed me, neighbour Nelly. Ma as her children and daughters- in-law called her.

By now you realised they were all East Indians, Indo-Guyanese as they are called these days, but to me, Guyanese. I spent most of my time with her, as she milked her cows, tended to the sheep, with her in her hammock, in the kitchen, at night when she visited my mother to gaff, sometimes whispering because she didn’t want to wake me, according to my mother. But it didn’t always work, because I knew her scent, the sweet musical drawl in the cadence of her voice.

My mother said, somehow I sensed her presence and would find my way into her lap and allowed her to rock me to sleep. Though I believe the cool Atlantic sea breeze did me in.
No one in her family could eat unless I ate. I had my own bowl. No one, not any of my siblings could raise his/her voice, much less beat me when she was around. She adored and loved me, and I adored and loved her.

She helped raise me. So you see, deep in me, are the memories of her. But not only her, all the Indian people who only showed me love. How can I now, not trust my early childhood extended family? How can I hate a group of people with whom I played , shared classrooms, knowledge, and food? It’s like rejecting a very important part of me. And there’s no circumstance greater than what’s etched in every fibre, every cell, every nucleus in me.

I have friends of different races, people with whom I communicate, enquire of their health and wellness, listen to their concerns about their place, my place, our place in this brewing political storm. I listen.

Last night I spoke with Sasenarine Singh. We spoke as alumni, brothers, friends. Yes, he’s a Bishops’ boy. We joked, laughed, shared ideas, listened to each other. Why? We respect each other. I have videos with Sase on my show, 2015, sharing knowledge, economics, finance, and political ideas.

Sase is passionate, effervescent in his politics, can be construed as divisive, but he’s a son of our soil, and such energy, should be harnessed and channelled for the betterment of all. I told him so. We laughed.

He can’t help himself. Bishops’ took him in young, educated and groomed him. It’s a Bishops’ thing, a Guyanese thing. Don’t read too much into it.

Reach out brethren. Guyana belongs to all of us. It’s in our best interest to reject racism, reject the politics of old, reject any ideology that separates us. Guyana has suffered, and will suffer, divided. We the people are responsible, and must find a new way, develop a new vocabulary that allows us to communicate with compassion, love and respect.
We owe it to our children, and their children, to be better.

Better has to come, but we have to be and do better for we are the better, we are awaiting.
I cannot be what I’m not. I cannot hate anyone. I cannot in good conscience, be divisive. I am Marjorie Collins’ son, neighbour Lucille, neighbour Shirah, neighbour Zaimoon, neighbour Khan, and neighbour Nelly’s son.
I am the son of Guyana.

Regards,
Mosa Telford