The comparative chasm between two kindred communities tells volumes about the complex history of Diaspora Indians. It also tells a lot about the general tango of sensitivities between longer-rooted immigrants and their raw cousins.
1. Sugar Stelling, Skeldon
2. Skeldon Primary School (where my parents met)
3. The house where Auntie Arlene grew up, 78 Village
4. George Lewis (my father’s student) stops to say ‘hello,’ 78 Village
5. Curass (Catfish) & Fisherman’s foot, 66 Fishing Complex
6. Compact sand, 63 Beach
7. Marina at Parika, Demerara River
8. 5AM on the Essequibo River
At the National Archive of Guyana. I cannot explain the exhilaration of finding tactile documentation of the emigration of my paternal Great Grandparents Nagin and Kowlasar, and the date of their daughter’s (my Grandmother — Sancharie) marriage to my Grandfather Oudai (December 1929!) We also found the birth record of my Great Aunt Edith, sister to my Great Grandmother Emily (my namesake.)
We’re here in Guyana, and off to a good start. This morning I interviewed Prime Minister candidate Rupert Roopnaraine — cricketeer, poet, academic, politician, and director of the 1979 film “The Terror and the Time.” We talked about collaboration, the Third Cinema, skipping school, and the Yoruba Singers (who I am interviewing tomorrow!)
Until soon,
Alyssa
“The Guyana Issue confronts the global invisibility of Guyanese artists. According to the nation’s latest census, Guyana has a population of over 750,000 and an estimated 2,000,000 citizens living outside its borders. This reveals that almost three times as many Guyanese live overseas than within the nation itself. And yet what the global public often sees of Guyana and its citizens still center on the exotic, the tropical, the colonial, and the touristic. The artists in this issue aim to counter this historic malpractice and seek out innovative and critical perspectives to engage conversations about Guyana and its vast diaspora. —Grace Aneiza Ali”
Submission by Abel Peters
Some years back, on a Monday morning in mid-March, my co-worker, Greg, and I were having a coffee break and chatting about the upcoming baseball season, when he switched to a different subject. He said that his son, Joe, having the previous day dropped off a friend at Kennedy Airport in Queens, New York, was forced, because of heavy traffic, to exit the Van Wyck Expressway at Liberty Avenue in Richmond Hill, Queens. Joe lived in the Ridgewood section of Queens, and Liberty Avenue westbound was a good alternate route because it ledin the general direction of Ridgewood.
According to Joe, as he was traveling along Liberty Avenue, he noticed what seemed like blood on the snow along a block-long stretch of the sidewalk. He surmised that it might have been the aftermath of a big fight, with some of the injured apparently having bled on the snow-covered pavement. In fact, Joe felt there might have been quite a bloodbath on Liberty Avenue that Sunday, most likely making newspaper headlines the next day. I couldn’t suppress a giggle at hearing the ‘bloodbath’ statement, as I knew exactly what Joe saw as he traversed that main thoroughfare of Richmond Hill, Queens that Sunday.
Determining the cause of the red-stained snow on Liberty Avenue requires an analysis of the demographic make-up of the Richmond Hill section of Queens and attendant religious and cultural practices of the residents.
A few decades ago, when US immigration laws were more liberal, it was not unusual for entire families from Guyana and the Caribbean to end up on American soil in relatively short time periods from filing of applications. With mounting political suppression in Guyana, there began a sharp exodus of Guyanese to greener pastures in America and Canada. In the New York area,they concentrated in certain districts of Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx, with most of those of East Indian background opting to settle in such areas as Astoria, Flushing, and Jackson Heights in Queens.
The earlier waves of Guyanese East Indian immigrants were mostly close-knit Hindu families, and they placed high priorities on accumulating funds to purchase their own homes. Mostly all working members of families would pool their funds, eager to begin the process of living the American dream. And when ready, they have tended to be attracted to the areas where their fellow Guyanese had already bought properties and settled down. In addition to those mentioned above, one area that proved a magnet for Guyanese East Indians over the years is the Richmond Hill section of Queens.
The predominantly East Indian new settlers are descendants of indentured laborers brought in the nineteenth century from India, by the British, to what was then British Guiana. In Richmond Hill, they replaced the predominantly Italian and Irish residents, who had moved out of the area to mostly suburban locations. Today, Richmond Hill has the highest concentration of Guyanese of East Indian origin outside of Guyana. In fact this section of Queens is aptly referred to as Little Guyana.p;
The East Indians of Guyana are predominantly Hindus and Muslims, and both groups, despite being so far away from the Indian subcontinent, have retained their respective cultural heritage, including religious customs. In Guyana, mosques and Hindu temples are ubiquitous features, arguably to an extent not dissimilar to that in certain parts of India. With the fast-growing Guyanese population in Richmond Hill, religious practices have taken a firm foothold, with many front yards festooned with little flags, mostly red, signifying the observation of Hindu rites, often annual.
Walking along Liberty Avenue during store hours on a weekend, with hordes of shoppers in and out of stores that specialize in spices, tropical fish, Hindu religious items, and Bollywood DVDs and CDs, and, on a summer day, with a cacophony of sounds blaring out of music stores and the speakers of slow-moving vehicles, one unfamiliar with the area could easily get the feel of a Bombay or Georgetown (capital of Guyana) street scene. On summer weekends it is not unusual to hear Bollywood and ‘Chutney’ (a type of fusion of calypso and Indian music) sounds, emanating from wedding parties and permeating the night atmosphere.
Hindus celebrate quite a few religious festivals, two of which have been designated national holidays in Guyana. A synopsis of one of these two observances may provide further insight into the Guyanese Richmond Hill connection and an explanation of what happened on Liberty Avenue that March Sunday.
The Hindu holiday of great significance to Guyanese East Indians, and the one with direct relationship to what seemed a bloodbath to Greg’s son, Joe, is the festival of Holi. Called the Festival of Colors and also referred to, in Bhojpuri, India, and Guyana, as Phagwah, Holi takes place over two days, mostly in March. According to the Hindu Calendar, it falls on the Phalgun Purnima (or Pooranmashi, Full Moon).
Holi is essentially the celebration of various associated legends, foremost of which is that of Prahalad and Hiranyakshyap. Legend had it that there once lived someone who was a devil and powerful king, Hiranyakshyap, and who considered himself a god and wanted everybody to worship him. However, to his great ire, his own son, Prahalad, chose to worship Lord Vishnu, and this made him so furious he resolved to get rid of Prahalad. To carry out his nefarious plan, he sought the help of his sister, Holika, who was said to have the ability to endure a fire unscathed. The plan was to have Holika enter a fire with Prahalad in her lap, so that Prahalad would perish and she walk off unharmed. According to the legend, the scheme backfired, with Prahalad saved because of his extreme devotion to Lord Vishnu, and Holika paying the ultimate price because of her sinister desire. The tradition of burning, called Holika or the ‘Holika Dahan,’ comes mainly from this legend.
The festival of Holi involves the burning of the Holika on the night of the eve of Holi. The Holika is built, days before the event, with dried tree branches, including those from coconut trees, leaves, and any other combustible material. A Hindu priest performs a religious rite before the long- and eagerly-awaited moment of the lighting of the Holika. With the eventual conflagration andridding of the evil Holika, the celebration begins in earnest, with devotees, dressed mostly in white, singing chowtals (appropriate religious songs) to the accompaniment of a hand drum (dholak) and percussion (jaals and dantaals). Also,they add water to the ash from the burnt-out Holika to apply to each other,signifying the belittling of the evil Holika.
The celebration in Guyana continues the next day, with chowtal singing and dancing through the streets, and participants throwing water and powder (mostly talcum) on each other. The festive atmosphere continues throughout the day, with each household eagerly looking out for the chowtal singers and dancers to enter their yard to be greeted with ‘abeer’ splashing (see description below) and serving of sweets.
In Guyana, with a mere three-quarter million people spread out among six races,and with Holi a national holiday, the festival is now celebrated by a broad spectrum of the population, led by politicians of every religious persuasion and race. Over the years, Holi has emerged as a holiday arguably on par with Christmas.
Regarding Joe’s description of a possible ‘bloodbath’ on Liberty Avenue that March Sunday, perhaps a brief account of the Holi festivities in this section of Queens should clear the air. Smokey Park, located in Richmond Hill, is the gathering point for Hindus on this auspicious holiday. They head there after attending temples across Queens, and the numbers over the years have reached as much as 30,000 by some estimates.
The park is transformed into a sea of white, with the participants, by a tradition with roots in India, in white garments. There is a stage show with chowtal singing reverberating throughout the neighborhood and dancers moving to the rhythmic sounds. Throughout the park, the revelers spray ‘abeer’ - water colored red with a powdered chemical - on each other. With everyone dressed in white, the red of the ‘abeer’ achieves due prominence. After a few hours of celebration, the crowd gradually disperses, but many continue engaging in the fun along the streets leading out from Smokey Park.
Holi was celebrated on that Sunday in March when Joe had cause to seek an alternate route off the Van Wyck Expressway and when a coating of snow was left on the streets of Richmond Hill. As the Smokey Park crowd dispersed, many headed to Liberty Avenue to extend the celebration, and continued to throw ‘abeer’ on each other. It was this activity that resulted in the red coloration on the snow on the sidewalk, caught the eye of Joe, and resulted in his conclusion of a bloodbath on Liberty Avenue.
Residents of Queens, and New York City at large, not familiar with this festival, celebrated by one of the fastest growing ethnic groups in the borough, may find this article useful. With the celebrations usually held in early spring, mostly in March, perhaps any red coloration of the snow, depending on the weather,along Queens, NY thoroughfares on Holi/Phagwah day would not be mistaken for a bloodbath.
Thomas Wolfe said, “You can’t go home again,” and while I accept this truism, I long for the “Innocence Lost” in the land of my youth.
I left Guyana in 1966 when the familiar moniker, B.G. (British Guiana,) had just been put aside for the original Amerindian name, Guyana--Land of many Waters. The word diversity was understood among the six races of people who inhabited this country, long before it was adopted by Canada.
Amerindians, Whites, Blacks, Portuguese, Chinese and East Indians—in that order as they came to this virgin land-- lived in harmony, each group, though adhering to some of their own traditions, still “stirred the melting pot” to become Guyanese. Life was much simpler then; in retrospect, almost idyllic in comparison to what I experienced upon my return for a visit many, many years later.
In my time I recall children of many different races playing hop-scotch, hide-and-go- seek, cricket, or pitching marbles together. Girls, balancing pails of water on their heads, chatted freely and safely by the water-stands without fear of being molested. Women walked to their farms, sometimes in pairs, or like my grandmother, in the company of a dog, who ferreted out snakes that may cross her path.
Black women came into the East Indian villages to trade cassava-starch – used to stiffen shirt collars-- for lunch-pails of rice. At other times they brought Awara fruit, peculiar to sandy-loam areas where they lived, and took dried coconuts in barter.
Men rode bicycles through the villages sounding their conch shell to sell their catch of the day, fish, shrimp and crabs. The money they collected was theirs for an honest day’s work. No one beat them on the head to steal those wages.
Garden crops flourished. Housewives did not hesitate to ask their neighbours for a few peppers off their plants or some vegetables from a vine. School-children out at lunch break or after classes raided fruit-bearing trees of tamarind, mangoes and cherries with no fear of reprisals. Life was simple. And trusting. People shared.
No fancy locks on a house--just a flimsy latch holding the door shut against the wind. I cannot remember anyone carrying around a bunch of keys. And in a rainstorm it was all right to seek shelter below someone’s wooden house, standing on stilts.
From my window I often watched young men, not Black or Indian or of mixed parentage just youths having fun as they chased iguanas across our property, even following them up coconut palms. Once the reptiles were caught the cook-out began. The most brazen of the group would holler out to my grandmother, “Aunty, can you lend us a pot. And if you don’t mind can you spare a bit of coconut oil and some garlic please”. Then as an afterthought he’d add, “And a piece of onion if you have any.” Granny always obliged because some of these “boys” would be later hired to scale the tall coconut palms in order to harvest the dried fruit which was sold for oil-making.
Kite flying at Easter time and the rivalry among the kids as to whose kite was the best, which one flew the highest or the longest, or whose contraption cut down the most kites was a much anticipated event. The winning kite always had a razor-blade tied to its tail. Oh! How these devices sang as they soared above in the blue sky.
I enjoyed a nice, long walk on the beach, running my bare feet in the hot sand, and then dipping them in the Atlantic Ocean, my only care being not to get stung by a jelly-fish locally know as a “ man-o-war.”
Now the beaches are shrew with debris--Styrofoam containers discarded from the take-away food stands. And plastic bottles and plastic bags from the stores. Such is “progress.”
Time was when we were the world’s best re-cyclers. Glass jars were re-used as canisters to store salt and sugar and beans. Pop bottles were re-sold for a penny each to the stores or to the bottle-lady who came by once a week. Many a “ bulls-eye” candy was purchased with these pennies and brown paper that wrapped bought merchandise became liners for kitchen shelves or papered our text books.
Is this nostalgia or loss of innocence? I wish the FEAR of walking the streets of Guyana, without always looking over one’s shoulder, would just disappear; that people once again live in harmony, recognizing each others strengths and weaknesses and work together for a stable country.
Submission by Jerilyn Roycroft
This is the British Guiana that I knew and emigrated from. You have changed greatly, and among many other improvements, there is now a bridge across the mighty Demerara. I shall forever be grateful to you for all you have given me, and wish only the best for you. With skilled and righteous leadership you can develop your own, unique identity and build a rich future to offer upcoming generations. You have a special place in my heart!
Thank you too for the dizzying variety of wholesome fruit and vegetables you offered us. Before the buzzword “organic” was heard of, we were deluged with locally, naturally grown produce, and I grew up loving it all and continue to enjoy as many varieties as I can obtain here in Canada
And you taught us to walk gently on the earth by taking our own bags/baskets to the market. I can still remember my Mother coming home with a wicker basket full of live crabs to make soup - that’s what we called “fresh”! The sights, sounds and smells of this market being right on the harbour, remain with me as a precious memory.
I must also thank you for the gift of rhythm and music. Scenes like this steel band passing were common in my childhood, and although I was too small to join them, my older sister would go “tramping’” with our cousins behind the band, returning home when everyone was worn out.
Thank you for the riches of your interior. Travelling in an authentic “dugout” on the border with Brazil was a special treat. I regret that I didn’t see more of the interior, but you have much that is unique and exciting to offer those who have seen all the usual tourist destinations.
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