Dear Editor,

I WRITE today not about politics; I write today not about medical science; I write today not about spirituality. Those are important issues that we as a people not only need to talk about, but also to act on.

I write today about poverty. That painful word and experience that many of our leaders have never experienced. I did, I was fortunate to escape it physically, but mentally I’m still there. I am there mentally because I see my brothers and sisters still experiencing it. I wish I were in a financial position to alleviate it. The finances may not be there, but I have something more powerful — THE PEN.

Today I wish to reflect on my past to provide an insight into poverty from personal experiences. On occasions I would go into this reflective mode; when I’m in this mindset, I put my thoughts into words. As I sit here in my office I reflect on my unique background for someone in my position. Society dealt me a one-way ticket to prison or to suffer at the hands of a trigger-happy police officer with an AK47. Many of my friends suffered that fate and I am still at a loss as to how I escaped it– just about.

My father was a brilliant man, graduating from Christ Church Secondary school with six GCEs. The world at his feet, the world his oyster. Proceeding to A-levels and possibly university, an option like his brothers and sisters. He chose quick riches over hard work, in the process becoming a career criminal — a bandit. Abandon us he did, spending most of his adult life in prison in Suriname and Guyana.

My mother, I love her. She is my heroine, but she was not perfect. She made many mistakes in terms of choice of men. At age 30, she had five children with three different fathers who all abandoned her. She died on her 31st birthday with her sixth. What would it had taken for her to realise that these black men were useless? All they ever rewarded her for her loyalty were children and physical and mental abuse. Many times we witnessed it, scared stiff.

Our house was very old– very, very old. One day, the foundations overburdened and in a state of disrepair, gave away; the house collapsed. Too poor to rebuild, a dilapidated and shattered house, like the minds of the poor, suffering kids, was our dwelling. No electricity, no potable water. An outside latrine, looked down upon with scorn by the rich and privileged.

I don’t know what drove me. Surrounded by abuse and chaos and battling a secret mental illness, I studied for my CXC, A-Levels and my medical degree, utilising the neighbour’s shop light at odd hours in the nights and early mornings to study,the times when only police and bandits roam the streets. The police never protected me — the bandits did — wanting to see this ghetto youth make it.

I chronicled my thoughts and experiences in my secret diary which I discarded once all the pages were utilised. Tears had stained them. That was cathartic. The misunderstood misunderstood.

Why am I here today? Why wasn’t I one of those statistics? I See the world differently from most. An outlier. Fearless. Outspoken. Blunt. No respecter of status. Today many would say I’ve made it. I don’t think I have. My life, my story, my experiences were for a reason. Everyday that purpose is becoming clearer. To be that small voice for the misunderstood– assuming they survive police brutality.

My plea to those in the corridors of power is to provide those in poverty a way out. You can’t tie their arms and expect them to swim against the tides of economic deprivation. As you have your chauffeur-driven SUV, living in your mansions in “Pradoville,” the impoverished children are asking the question. You’ve tied my hands; what am I going to be? What have I done so bad? What is

my destiny?  You blindfolded my eyes — how am I supposed to see? You demand we climb our way out of poverty when you haven’t provided us a ladder. Provide that social GPS to direct them out of poverty. I will repeat. I don’t know what drove me, but I pray the day would come when no child has to go to school hungry. I pray for that day because I experienced it.

Sorry for being so negative. I’ve physically left the ghetto, but the ghetto has not left me. I will continue doing the little I can do to keep reminding the government I support that my first allegiance is with the poor and impoverished, regardless of race.

Regards,

Dr Mark Devonish MBBS MSc MRCP(UK) FRCP (Edin)
Consultant Acute Medicine
Nottingham University Hospital
UK