Dear Editor,

FOR THE CHILDREN OF GUYANA: KNOW YOUR ROOTS

Hearken to the call of this beautiful sun-drenched land
of the Pakaraima on which the mighty Roraima stands—
a guardian of the vast unspoiled hinterland.

You need to know the Indigenous People—
the Amerindians of nine tribes: Arawak, Carib, Akawario, Arekuna,
Patamona, Waiwai, Makushi, Wapishana, and Warrau.
The proud and gentle people who thrive on the Earth
in ways the wayward world needs to discern.

They still hunt with bows and poisoned-tipped arrows.
But they know every tree and vine in the sacred forest,
every macaw, jaguar, black caiman, and every healing herb.
Near their bamboo-thatched huts, they plant the cassava crop,
and make tapioca, farine, cassareep, and pepperpot.

You need to know how they lived through the centuries,
far from the rush and noise of towns and cities.
You need to know their customs and ceremonies, and their secrets,
even as you browse the web for distant lands and faces,
and even as you walk with watchful eyes lest you step in a puddle.

Do you wonder from where your ancestors came?
If you would trace your roots, they are deep in lands strange and afar—
along the great rivers of West Africa in Ghana, Nigeria, and Senegal.
Humans shackled and herded on that infernal Middle Passage.
The unthinkable evil unbridled greed and savagery unleashed.

Branded on arrival, they labored from dawn to dust.
The taskmasters’ lashes dug deep roped tracks on their sun-burnt backs.
The young bent with aged limbs; unbearable torment broke their spirits.
Still, they cried for freedom, but who would dare to raise a fist.
In the depths of anguish, they heard the voices of Cuffy and Accara.
The Berbice revolt—the first telling blow to slavery in the Americas.

And they came as indentured servants on the Hesperus and the Whitby.
Lured by the arkatis; they crossed the kala pani
that drenched their bodies, but not their memories
of Bihar, Chennai, and the Bhojpuri speaking districts of Uttar Pradesh.
They too bled from the taskmasters’ whips.
Like the canes held in bundles tight, they forged a bond in day and night
with the celestial sound of the shankh and the festive beats of the dolak
as they raised their voices in dohas, chalisas, choupais, and chowtals.

And others came from the islands of Hong Kong and Madeira.
They never really took to the bitter-sweet taste of sugar.
They ventured far from the lashes and the blazing sun.
They bought and sold, and closed the shop when the day was done,
and for my childhood days a little fun—blowing in my mouth a gum.

Yours respectfully,
Haimnauth Cecil Ramkirath