Are We Independent? Montegonian Exclusive

AFTER 50 years, we have not really released our vestiges of the Crown in England. Granted, Mrs Simpson Miller has made the gesture towards a break with the Crown, but I cannot help but feel it is just political talk, pandering to the public. We still have a representative of the Queen as an influential part of the state, the governor general. We still have British ceremonials in Parliament, we still have appeals to the British courts. We are a part of their Commonwealth, we still have the remnants of their laws. Are we really independent of England?

After our recent return to the International Monetary Fund and our leaders begging on a world tour, are we financially independent? Our money is printed in mints in England and is backed by debt and United States dollars, which is losing its footing as world currency. How can one really say we are independent? What are we celebrating this 50th anniversary?

How are we independent when we are slaves to the foreign media, especially the 'mighty' Uncle Sam? We are dependent on imports from the USA; we depend on their food, their clothes, even their entertainment.

How are we independent when we subscribe to the neoliberalist policies of globalisation that insist on lessening the powers and sovereignty of the state, and the continuous breakdown of international barriers? How are we independent when foreigners own our electrical supplies, our airports, our mining plants? What are we independent of?

Bound by handcuffs

Are we not bound by so many handcuffs of ever-growing poverty, illiteracy, unemployment, crime, men-women inequality, limited technology and, worst of all, which result in other bounding forces too - corruption?

In the word of Kahlil Gibran ... "Pity the nation that wears a cloth it does not weave, eats a bread it does not harvest, and drinks a wine that flows not from its own wine press. Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero, and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful. Pity the nation that raises not its voice save when it walks in a funeral, boasts not except among its ruins, and will rebel not save when its neck is laid between the sword and the block. Pity the nation whose statesman is a fox, whose philosopher is a juggler, and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking. Pity the nation that welcomes its new ruler with trumpeting, and farewells him with hooting, only to welcome another with trumpeting again. Pity the nation divided into fragments, each fragment deeming itself a nation."

Yannick Pessoa
YannickPessoa@yahoo.com

Montegonian Editorial Exclusive: POLITICIANS CRIMINALISING JAMAICANS

The atrophy of socialism, social welfare, the welfare state and the growth of the penal state represent a double criminalization of poverty. Criminalising Survival, Vending, Hustling, Small Businesses, Corner Shops, Street Life Street People Street Hustling... Street children might not be securely lodged in the life-patterns that the middle class impose on young people, but their reward from trying to maintain a minimum standard of living that their parents and governments are unable to provide them is infinitely preferable to living in the absolute poverty that surrounds them, yet police and state will incarcerate them... in juvenile centres and later on in life in BIG PRISON... We know there is a Marginalised Black male, A lack of opportunity, a lack of education, a lack of funds and lack of land and access to it. We born in Jamaica and then they say you are a squatter, "wah mi supposed to do, born and float above the ground, since me cannot get any plot of land via birth right. rent an existence forever"

The government needs to stop seeing the people as a mass of cattle for culling taxes and revenue! The poor appear to be just another commodity, good, product... to be speculated, traded and profited from by the gang of bankers and political cronies

This folly continues by using a stance on Weed and drugs as an excuse to systematically incarcerate even non-violent youth. Black religious expression and such is facing serious repression. while court houses and tax office are cash collectors. They take much and give us so little.

The transition from welfare to taxfare and the proliferation of young bodies behind bars taken together work to marginalize Jamaica's black poor population, with an economy forcing them out of Jobs and no public aid, on the one side, and holding them under lock, on the other, and eventually pushing them into the peripheral [and deeply precarious] sectors of the labor market and farther on the road to poverty

We don't live in a direct or indirect democracy, in reality. We live in a police state, controlled by oligarchic forces, a two head serpent. The heads of state lack the will to HELP people out of poverty. instead we have generation that go from Cradle to Prison...

 This country is based on slavery and land grabs by a small plantocrasy. Had they been decent people, to begin with this plantation class would have asked for permission to share this land with the Tainos and or Arawaks. Instead, through force and genocide they took the land and resources and divided them up, as they did again after emancipendence, when they divided the land and this country among the descendants of slave masters and the indentured labourers and buffer classes, just as we do now by letting the wealthy determine the laws and by making slaves of the have-nots, through debt and financial slavery and usury.

If Jamaica is ever to be fixed... land reform, education reform, energy reform, economic  and spiritual reform are now absolutely necessary!

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Threnody

“crossing that bridge with lessons I've learnt, time is a space between me and you”
~Seal: Prayer for the Dying

“Those who are dead, are not dead, they're just living in my head”
~Coldplay: 43




Good Afternoon, Good Evening and Good Morning, I hope you'll be still enjoying the lovely weather when you get a chance to read this, be huddled at that seat at the shop, or sombrely warming up to that shot of JB which you'll be happy to have excuse to drink, “A Wedda, A Wedda! U nuh see seh time chilly.” Or maybe you're on your verandah, I hope the breeze doesn't hamper your reading too much, but where ever you are I beg and beseige thee, take a very solemn walk with me, a path some of you maybe vaguely acquainted with, some of you not so acquainted with. Our scenario today reminds me of a Stephen King series I read named The Dark Tower. It is a tale of a Gunslinger, who has seen all his friends die and seen his country and his lovers, home and family dessimated and is on the chase to reach a place called The Dark Tower, to defeat a Red King and call out the names of all his fallen friends and reset or restore the order to things. And some things stood out in that book for me and one was an expression he used frequently to describe the changes that he saw took place in his world, and it was this “The world has moved on.” He never said from what, but it was from the point he had marked as the better years of his life.

Now death and loss are things I've always known of, however in my early twenties I realized that I was ill-prepared for it. Because I never realized that as early as 19 and 20, so many of the ones I knew would be gone, and I've come to realize that I have lived under the naïve belief that me and all my friends would grow old, but now I know better. This year I've had to learn of death all too intimately.

A threnody is a song or hymn of mourning composed or performed as a memorial to a dead person. The term originates from the Greek word threnoidia, from threnos (lament) + oide (song). Ultimately from Proto-Indo-European root wed(uued or ooed)- (to speak) that is also the forefather of such words as ode, tragedy, comedy, parody, melody, and rhapsody. And that is what this article is gentle people all across the land. My Threnody for Paradise Lost. I don't know if it is because we are in a leap year or what but the tragedies this year seemed a many. It all start last year this time. Decemeber 7 to be exact, when a police battalion rolled through Paradise and killed one Cedric Thorpe, also known to many as Goosey. I had seen him, just an hour before, stood and spoke, then continued my journey downtown, by the time I had reached the top of Union Street, people were talking about a Goosey dead, and I paid it absolutely no mind, after I had just spoken to him, must be another one. By the time I was at Perry Street my phone was ringing of the chart, “Yuh hear she dem just kill Mankind!” That set the trend for the year to come, I would be standing out by Likkle Dread loitering before getting food when a friend of mine Homie's father would drive pass in his little red car as per usual, stop get a cigarette at the shop up the road, he would complain of not feeling well, and I would watch him drive off in his little red car, only to have a heart attack and crash less than 4 seconds later. He would drive off into a column and crash and die of heart complication. Just like that life will blindside you, and it is just earth runnings and the way of the world, and leaves us to wonder, what is man...

I would later have to watch my close parri, suffer through the loss of his mother. Then to bear witness to some kind of secret wars being waged in Paradise and watching innocent and young lives spin out and spill out in bloodshed, and then to not really know, what secret games and deeds they had played and been punished for. To watch the life of Sticky Bean get snuffed out for mistaken identity on a rainy day, to hear Bess a shopkeeper's life being wasted away at 6:50 in the morn while drinking tea, to get up the following morning to hear a pretty little girl you watch grow, offer proper council and advice when you could, Madeeks, get wasted away at the same taxi stand you and everyone whoe probably knew her, all before the age of 20. To then watch the spirit of a community die. Shortly after some respit from the urban prowl only to return and hear my good friend, a very spirited old man, very short thin and pixie like, full of verve and life a man that sat amongst thieves, murderers, weed heads, rum heads, youths, gun toters and average Joe's, a Roman Catholic at that, who would always be in spirited debates with me and my entourage about politics and God, and it was always good natured and never got bitter, no matter who we persecuted his belief or angle. His name was Dandy... and he lived by that name, he was always dandy. No one knows how Dandy real died, he just became ill, thin and died. In the space of 2 months that I had not really seen him, he just upped and died. Then there are Jerome (Amoy) and Gwangy (who the front page of the Mirror named Wong by some error in calculation or translation and they even gave him a career as a cane vendor). They gave away their life carelessly by persistent pursuit of bad things. But they were human, they had families and friends, some of whom I am very close to, I knew them. They died. Byron Balfour who I knew, he wasn't fond of me who wrote next to me in the Mirror write on the next page there, so close to me in some regard he died too. And my cousin/unlce on Tate Street... my fallen friends and soldiers are many.

Most days I feel like Jeremiah, the weeping prophet, weeping for all the sorrows I've seen in this world, all the lives we must touch and live to see shattered, for all those who curdle up on the street, under taxi stands and make the concrete jungle their posture pedic, for all my friends who have tossed way their lives to coke and now roam the town like ghosts for all that to die, for it has said, many more will have to suffer and many more will have to die, don't ask me why.

I close with a Peter Gabriel song “I Grieve,” 
“it was only one hour ago
it was all so different then 
there's nothing yet has really sunk in 
looks like it always did 
this flesh and bone 
it's just the way that you would tied in 
now there's no-one home

life carries on 
in the people i meet 
in everyone that's out on the street 
in all the dogs and cats 
in the flies and rats 
in the rot and the rust 
in the ashes and the dust 
life carries on and on and on and on 
life carries on and on and on”

Yannick Pessoa
yannickpessoa@yahoo.com
http://yahnyk.blogspot.com