tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71460573065685130352024-03-05T14:37:42.771-08:00The Revo BlogOne woman's personal account of the Grenadian Revolution, the coup and US invasion 1982-1984Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-28072542466412745562023-01-05T08:40:00.003-08:002023-04-26T07:21:22.898-07:00<span style="font-family: georgia;">This blog consists of posts published on <a href="http://debialper.blogspot.com/">my main blog</a> between November 2008 and May 2009.<br />
<br />
I have gathered them together here in one place to make it easier for people researching the Revo.<br />
<br />
The thoughts and impressions in this blog are very much my own. I represent no individual or organisation.<br />
<br />
Comments are disabled.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><h1 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The time has come... </span></h1><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div>This is the post I never thought I'd write. </div><div>And yet ... I can't help wondering if it hasn't bee inevitable all along ...</div><div><br /></div><div>As though everything that has come before has been building up to this moment.</div></span><div><span style="color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><div>Bear with me. Please. This is hard.</div></span><span><div>Some of you will know that I lived part of my story in Grenada. I've mentioned it before, <a href="http://beta.blogger.com/You%20know,%20I%20never%20have.%20%20When%20you%20put%20it%20like%20that,%20I%20suppose%20it%20does%20seem%20like%20it%20has%20literary%20potential.%20%20But%20%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%A6%20I%20don%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%99t%20know.%20%20I%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%99ve%20never%20figured%20out%20a%20way%20of%20doing%20it%20that%20I%20feel%20comfortable%20with.%20%20One%20day,%20maybe.%20%20As%20for%20feeding%20it%20in%20%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%93%20well%20I%20suppose%20like%20everything%20else%20in%20life%20it%20has%20made%20me%20into%20what%20I%20am,%20so%20informs%20everything%20I%20do,%20but%20no%20direct%20feeding%20yet.%20%20Or%20maybe%20ever%20%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%A6" style="color: #ccff44;">here,</a> <a href="http://debialper.blogspot.com/2008/06/is-it-fair-to-be-free.html" style="color: #ccff44;">here</a> and <a href="http://debialper.blogspot.com/2008/09/poverty-sucks.html" style="color: #ccff44;">here</a>, but only ever in passing.</div></span><span><div>The time has come to put some flesh on those old bones.</div></span></span><div><span style="color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><div>I first went to Grenada in 1982, 3 years after the revolution.</div></span><span><div>I attended the anniversary celebrations.</div></span><span><div>My photo albums contain pictures of a smiling Maurice Bishop, PM of Grenada, embracing Samora Machel of Mozambique.</div></span><span><div>They're both dead now. History. I was there.</div></span><span><div>I was there too for the International Women's Day celebrations and heard Angela Davis speak.</div></span><span><div>Her photo's in my album too.</div></span><span><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh67qPZJXM2NTJCkfM4p3tPWzLUrVRfbE8Jpwn2tnxU39oYpjcyA5OiwGPZ5qHQReudEFJeaZojmbYmAsSxJSs65n3A2ULEu10qOLDXjMjOwzuiwwRfFNN7JOK7CLY4-_LTvO5H7MRb3FgqrgPLyS5KiiUdlVkKFsKV_07c9at-e3e5EDtkcu8rgRyH/s2201/IMG_8777.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Angela Davis Speaking at International Woman's Day March 1982" border="0" data-original-height="1465" data-original-width="2201" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh67qPZJXM2NTJCkfM4p3tPWzLUrVRfbE8Jpwn2tnxU39oYpjcyA5OiwGPZ5qHQReudEFJeaZojmbYmAsSxJSs65n3A2ULEu10qOLDXjMjOwzuiwwRfFNN7JOK7CLY4-_LTvO5H7MRb3FgqrgPLyS5KiiUdlVkKFsKV_07c9at-e3e5EDtkcu8rgRyH/w320-h213/IMG_8777.HEIC" title="Angela Davis Speaking at International Woman's Day March 1982" width="320" /></a></div></span></span><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Angela Davis speaking at International Women's Day March 1982</span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><br /><div><br /></div><div>That first month that I spent on this beautiful island in the company of its strong, proud, resilient people convinced me. Somehow ... in some way ... I knew that my own destiny was meshed with this beacon of hope in the Caribbean.</div></span></span><div><span style="color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">My return there was delayed by an unfortunate accident, but eventually I found myself back in Grenada the following year, with the intention of helping to set up a mobile library.</span><div><span style="color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had been there about 5 months when on 19th October 1983, after weeks of growing tension and unrest, a crowd led by schoolchildren triumphantly released Maurice from where he'd been held under house arrest. The details of the casualties from the resulting attack on the people by the army have never been fully revealed. </span><div><span style="color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div>The coup was followed by 4 days of curfew. On 25th October, the US invaded. (Of necessity this is the most potted of accounts. You can see full details on <a href="http://www.thegrenadarevolutiononline.com/index.html" style="color: #ccff44;">this site</a> if you're interested.) I stayed for as long as I could after the invasion, in spite of intense pressure to evacuate, but a few months later, penniless and heartbroken, I no longer had a choice. I returned to the UK to my frantic parents.</div></span><div><span style="color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div>With hindsight, I recognise I was suffering from PTSD, but no one had heard of that condition back then. I think I was grieving. Even now, 25 years later, it's hard to describe the depth and intensity of the loss.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFnfxRvybS4OzbbwzNtcXhVqp6K1-mBtVtsBm4YzRr6-nDoGUZflWLKBe9MJvc6jMpbEhJknn7Af7LtGsJAwXNS8kVP5lSy7idwoHtoAPwAa5jthnoQwiumd8GvIW3nQC0GkWCszbeVrb0qaQTXJ7DLwk50V4ap7q2AfH5G_GEFYb22BKbPaACZj3P/s3095/IMG_8778.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2047" data-original-width="3095" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFnfxRvybS4OzbbwzNtcXhVqp6K1-mBtVtsBm4YzRr6-nDoGUZflWLKBe9MJvc6jMpbEhJknn7Af7LtGsJAwXNS8kVP5lSy7idwoHtoAPwAa5jthnoQwiumd8GvIW3nQC0GkWCszbeVrb0qaQTXJ7DLwk50V4ap7q2AfH5G_GEFYb22BKbPaACZj3P/s320/IMG_8778.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">I returned the following year, but post-revo Grenada was a very different place and I couldn't see </span><span style="text-align: left;">how to fit in or become a part of it. When I finally left in 1986, that should theoretically have been the end of my relationship with the island.</span></div></span></div><div><div><span style="color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div>It wasn't though. The experience - seeing the hope and infinite possibility of the revo and then witnessing its destruction - had changed me forever.</div></span><div><span style="color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><div>Fast forward a couple of decades.</div></span><span><div>I'm an author with 5 books to my name. Friends often ask me why I don't ever write about what happened in Grenada.</div></span><span><div>'I sort of do,' I reply. 'Those experiences are part of me. They're part of my identity and so they inform everything I do and everything I write. It's just not explicit.'</div></span><span><div>Deep down though, I think I knew that this was only part of the truth and that one day I would have to bring the whole experience out of the shadows of my past and into my present.</div></span><span><div>I just couldn't see how.</div></span></span><div><span style="color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div>A few months ago, I received an email from a guy in the US who had come across a photo on my website and wanted to know if I had any others.</div></span><div><span style="color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div>I asked who he was and he told me he'd been part of the first wave of US soldiers in the invasion and wanted to see if he could recognise any of his old buddies in my photos. I politely informed him the images were not available.</div></span><div><span style="color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div>The contact made me twitchy and a bit paranoid. I checked round the web and was shocked to see there's a big nostalgia trip in the US about the invasion. Grenada was a nice, short, simple war. And they won. Not like these nasty, messy, complicated wars they have nowadays in places like Afghanistan and Iraq, with their hideous resonances of the ultimate unwinnable war - Vietnam. I stumbled on a propaganda 'comic' telling the story of the brave US soldiers coming to the rescue of the grateful islanders, saving them from the red peril. The invasion took place a quarter of a century ago, yet I found forums where ex and current marines swapped stories and photos of the 'good old days in Grenada' when America could fight a war and win.</div></span><div><span style="color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div>History. They were there and so was I. But my memories were very different from theirs.</div></span><div><span style="color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div>More time passed. Then recently I 'met' Liane Spicer via the blogosphere. Liane lives in Trinidad and blogs at <a href="http://lianespicer.blogspot.com/" style="color: #ccff44;">Wordtryst</a>. We exchanged emails. I told her in about 4 lines about my involvement with Grenada. She said what other friends had already pointed out:</div></span><div><span style="color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div>'What a fascinating story - your memoir will really be something! It's got all the elements: tropical island, politics, coup, invasion, romance, adventure, altruism... Are you writing it? Or maybe feeding it all into a novel?'</div></span><div><span style="color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><div>This was my reply:</div></span><span><div><br /></div><div>'You know, I never have. When you put it like that, I suppose it does seem like it has literary potential. But…I don’t know. I’ve never figured out a way of doing it that I feel comfortable with. One day, maybe. As for feeding it in – well I suppose like everything else in life it has made me into what I am, so informs everything I do, but no direct feeding yet. Or maybe ever…'</div></span></span><div><span style="color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div>(You want more spookiness? Having just gone back to this email exchange, I notice Liane's was sent on 25th October - 25 years to the day after the invasion.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Grenada was back on my shoulder again. It wasn't going to go away.</div><div>Then I read a couple of reviews of <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Pynter-Bender-Jacob-Ross/dp/0007222971/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1227876486&sr=1-1" style="color: #ccff44;">Pynter Bender</a>. The book is by a Grenadian author, Jacob Ross, and is set on the island. I bought the book and as I read I was overwhelmed by his evocation of the familiar sights and sounds. Memories came flooding back.</div><div>Grenada was whispering urgently in my ear.</div><div><br /></div><div>So it was almost no surprise when I received an email from a woman who is making a documentary on the revo.</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRb6IRoUEXLfU2Z3X4PEFew8HXU3TYXvbezYUe4V5NzRt4NVL8XV7h4nbq9WxjmZNYpFJT4sQ3Nb5wnlfTlzecugnbYMPhS1gF_rX1oKS3809GXpXLADUm200hzygW45NXsayKvFX7/s220/Red+Letter+Shoot+1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRb6IRoUEXLfU2Z3X4PEFew8HXU3TYXvbezYUe4V5NzRt4NVL8XV7h4nbq9WxjmZNYpFJT4sQ3Nb5wnlfTlzecugnbYMPhS1gF_rX1oKS3809GXpXLADUm200hzygW45NXsayKvFX7/s220/Red+Letter+Shoot+1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 146px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 220px;" /></a><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>Faye-Anne Wilkinson was born in the UK. Her mother is Grenadian and Faye was a baby when the events I've been relating took place. The film is about her own personal search for truth and understanding. You can see the trailer for the film</span><span> </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i4kinFOgSqU&t=1s&ab_channel=FayeWilkinson"><span style="color: #ccff44;">here</span></a>.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>History. I was there. And now I'm here, though I have no idea what will happen next. This post is the beginning of the next part of my journey.</div><div><br /></div></span></div><h1 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Laying my cards on the table</span></h1><span style="font-family: georgia;">I know I said I would plunge straight in, but I think you need a bit of my own back story first. A sort of 'laying my cards on the table', so you can have a picture of the young woman who arrived in Grenada in Feb 1982.<br /><br />So - who am I? That was a question I asked myself throughout my youth. It wasn't until I emerged from my turbulent teens, that I knew I wouldn't be fulfilling my parents' expectations. I was never going to marry young, to a nice Jewish boy, and bring up kids in a semi-detached within walking distance of where I'd grown up. (A bit more detail on my <a href="http://www.debialper.co.uk/biography/" target="_blank">biog</a> here.)<br /><br />Once I'd worked out that this didn't mean I had some fundamental design fault,, I set about finding myself. And found 'me' in politics.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The 70s were my decade. While working in straight jobs, all my energy and enthusiasm went into changing the world. They were exciting times, when that felt like a genuine possibility. The revolution was always just around the corner. These were the pre-Thatcher days, before greed triumphed over altruism. I was active in all the radical movements of the time: the women's movement, anti-racism, Northern Ireland, anti-nuke, community politics...<br /><br />Though many of the people I knew were members of the Socialist Workers' Party, or one of the myriad other left wing parties that abounded back then, I was never a 'joiner'. If anything, I was more radical, leaning to anarchy.<br /><br />People associate anarchy with chaos and disorder, but when you think about it, a belief in anarchy as a workable alternative implies a fundamental belief in human nature: that, left to our own devices, human beings will choose to work together for the greater good. That we'll choose to access the capacity to do good that's within us all, rather than the potential for evil, greed and exploitation. It's not about every person for themselves, but about every person for every other.<br /><br />Starry-eyed? Naive? Without a doubt, but it's still the way I feel deep inside. It's called hope.<br /><br />So this was the young woman who decided in her mid-twenties that she needed to broaden her experiences and the best way to do that was to travel. To see other ways of living. To learn about other cultures, systems and attitudes. In 1980, I spent several months travelling across the US. The following year, I moved around, criss-crossing Europe. This last journey was undertaken with H, and it was at an open farm in Italy that we met J.<br /><br />Travelling together by train when we left the farm, the three of us talked about possible destinations for a next trip. Grenada was mentioned in the list. I'd only vaguely heard of the island, and knew little other than that it was in the Caribbean and shouldn't be confused with Granada, in Spain.<br /><br />Oh, and they'd had a revolution. Obvious choice.<br /></span><div><br /></div><h1 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Relationships</span></h1><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="http://nimis540.files.wordpress.com/2008/08/holding-hands1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://nimis540.files.wordpress.com/2008/08/holding-hands1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 136px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 181px;" /></a><br />Since this is a personal account as well as a historical and political one, there are some missing details in the previous posts that I've realised I need to fill in.<br /><br />When I was back in London, somewhere between operations 2 and 3, I happened to overhear a conversation at a party in which Grenada was mentioned. I spoke to the woman afterwards and she told me her story, which bore a remarkable resemblance to that of mine and H.<span style="font-size: 20.8px; font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><span style="color: #ccff44;">C</span></span> and her sister had visited Grenada on holiday and had the same emotional response as we had. Like us, they too planned to return but then her sister fell pregnant and C told me she was planning to go on her own. We promised to look out for each other.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">H </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">and I had been settled in Tempe for some time when C came to visit us. She was staying with a group of women in Carifta Cottages - a housing development on the south side of Grand Anse - but the others were due to leave shortly. C asked if we knew of anywhere she could rent. We asked round and found out that the little board house at the entrance to our gap was available.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">C </span>moved in and we became (and remain to this day) close friends. With a background in community development in the voluntary sector, she was working in Grenada as a volunteer with NACDA, the agency responsible for developing and encouraging co-operatives, the method that she had chosen to use her skills and experience to contribute to the Revo.<br /><br /><span style="color: #ccff44; font-size: 20.8px; font-weight: bold;">N</span> was a local woman living with her children in Mt Parnassus who later moved further up the coast to Happy Hill. We became very close early on during our second stay and she devoured our collection of books with infectious enthusiasm, providing us with gratifying evidence of the need for the mobile library. In return, N taught us to cook and took us on day long trips into the country, from where we'd hitch back together, laden with sacks of fresh produce.<br /><br /><span style="color: #ccff44;"><span style="font-size: 20.8px; font-weight: bold;">PC</span><span style="font-size: 20.8px;"> </span></span>was a local mover and shaker in Tempe. An older man, he took it upon himself to act as our mentor. His street wisdom, connections and sheer good sense, as well as the respect people had for him proved invaluable for us. It was PC, for example, who took H and I into the ghetto - considered off limits to outsiders. The ghetto was a tiny warren of shacks just off the Carenage in St Georges. As soon as we walked in, our presence was challenged. PC only had to say that we were with him for the protests to cease.<br /><br />It was strange; at first I would often be conscious of being the only white person in a particular place. I never felt vulnerable, but I certainly felt conspicuous. After a while though, as our faces became familiar and our presence drew less attention, I wouldn't even notice. Yet at the same time, it was vital to retain an awareness of who I was and where I came from. My story may have been running parallel to that of the people I met and became close to, but the truth is that I could never forget I was there by choice and not by birth or history.<br /><br />Another regular visitor to our yard was <span style="color: #ccff44; font-size: 20.8px; font-weight: bold;">R</span>, a 10 year old diabetic boy who would come into our kitchen and cook up batches of plantain crisps. And then there was <span style="color: #ccff44; font-size: 20.8px; font-weight: bold;">Y</span>, who taught us belly dancing. And <span style="color: #ccff44; font-size: 20.8px; font-weight: bold;">M</span>, who'd had a scene with J but stayed on in our yard after she left. And...and... and...many more people who made up our daily landscape.<br /><br />And then there was <span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #ccff44; font-size: 20.8px;">L</span></span>. I have to talk about L.<br /><br />Remember the background? When I returned to Grenada in June 1983, I had just come out of a disastrous 6 year relationship. I was determined to remain single, aware that I needed the space to sort my head out and work out how and why I had clung for so long to that particular shipwreck.<br /><br />But remember too what I said about the tourist scene? A single woman was always going to be seen as available. As soon as we arrived, H resumed her previous relationship with <span style="color: #ccff44; font-size: 20.8px; font-weight: bold;">B</span>. No matter how much I protested that my single status was a choice and was not negotiable, I was under constant pressure from men wanting to be my 'personal friend'. I didn't kid myself that I was irresistibly gorgeous, knowing the lure was what I represented, not who I was personally.<br /><br />One person stood out from the crowd who would approach me each time I went out and congregate at all hours of the day and night on our balcony. Not because he was any more persistent than the others, but because he was the only one who I felt made the effort to get to know the real me. I'd met L the previous year and had felt the connection then too, but had never acted on it. This time, L was determined to establish a relationship. I was equally determined to remain single.<br /><br />I lasted two months. Two whole celibate singleton months, before embarking on the most tempestuous and passionate relationship I'd ever had. L of course had many years experience of being with women tourists. And I was certainly no blushing virgin.<br /><br />Even so, I think it was clear to us both early on that what we had together was different from anything either of us had ever experienced before.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><h1><span style="font-family: georgia;">Why Revo</span></h1><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">A couple of friends whose opinions I trust have told me they're concerned that my use of the abbreviation 'Revo' might be sending out the wrong signals. Since I'm very anxious this should not be the case, I thought I should explain.<br /><br />While in official circles and on printed information the period was always referred to in Grenada as 'the revolution', on the streets and in conversation it was colloquially referred to as 'the Revo'. For me, this implied affection and ownership: there had been other revolutions in other places, but what was happening in Grenada was unique. It belonged to them. It was their Revo.<br /><br />For this reason I chose to use the abbreviation in these posts. I would be appalled to think that anyone who didn't know the context, might think that my decision to refer in that way to what happened between 13 March 1979 and 19 October 1983 implied I was trivialising or belittling the Grenadian revolution.<br /><br />I hope that it is clear to anyone and everyone reading this series of posts that my respect, admiration and genuine awe for what the Grenadian people achieved in that time against all the odds know no bounds.<br /><br />I was - and still am - humbled by what I witnessed.</span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><h1 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Just start writing</span></h1><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/bc/Flag_of_Grenada.svg/500px-Flag_of_Grenada.svg.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/bc/Flag_of_Grenada.svg/500px-Flag_of_Grenada.svg.png" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 134px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 224px;" /></a><a href="http://debialper.blogspot.com/2008/11/time-has-come.html"><span style="color: #ccff44;">Some people suggested</span></a><span style="color: #ccff44;"> </span>I start in the middle, others that I begin with a random image. The possibility of fictionalising my memories was mooted.<br />But the consensus is clear:<br />Just start writing.<br /><br />So this is it.<br />Part 1 of The Revo Blog.<br />And it feels weighty with significance.<br /><br />I've realised I need to give some background before I begin to tell what happened in that time when my own personal story became entwined with that of the island of Grenada.<br />This is not a diversion tactic, not is it control freakery.<br />I just don't want to keep interrupting the flow with distracting explanations once I begin.<br /><br />So this post will operate as a kind of appendix. Scene setting, if you will.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Grenada - statistics</span><br />Area: 344 sq km (approx same size as London)<br />Population: approx 90,000 (less than the smallest London borough)<br />The people: 80% African, 3% East Indian, 10% mixed<br />Capital: St Georges<br />Principal exports: cocoa, bananas, spices<br /><br /><a href="http://www.thecommonwealth.org/Shared_ASP_Files/UploadedFiles/%7B02779CE5-8D99-4E68-B1F3-1FC11495F4C7%7D_Grenada.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Grenada - a short history</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">1951-1983</span><br />1951 - Eric Gairy wins election<br />1962 - government dismissed for corruption<br />1972 - Gairy wins another election. JEWEL and MAP (see below) are formed<br />1973 - repression and unrest. JEWEL and MAP join to form NJM.<br />1974 - 3 month general strike. Rupert Bishop (father of Maurice) assassinated. Grenada achieves independence from Britain. NJM leadership arrested.<br />13 March 1979 - Revo! Gairy ousted in near bloodless coup<br />June 1980 - 3 women killed by bomb at rally<br />1982 - IMF congratulates PRG (see below) for economic performance. US becoming increasingly threatening and paranoid<br /><span>(Feb-March 1982 - my first visit to Grenada)</span><br />1983 - Reagan refuses to meet delegation aimed at improving relations with US. Rifts appearing in NJM. Rumours and unrest.<br />19th October 1983 - coup<br />20th-23rd October 1983 - curfew<br />25th October 1983 - US invasion<br /><span>(June 1983-February 1984 - my 2nd stay in Grenada)</span><span><br />(September 1985-March 1986 - my 3rd stay in Grenada)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Acronyms</span><br />Map - Movement for Assemblies of the People<br />JEWEL - Joint Endeavour for the Welfare, Education and Liberation of the People<br />NJM - New Jewel Movement<br />PRG - People's Revolutionary Government<br />PRA - People's Revolutionary Army<br />RFG - Radio Free Grenada<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The people in Grenada's story</span><br />Eric Gairy - corrupt dictator ousted by revo<br />Maurice Bishop - charismatic Prime Minister and personification of the revo<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">Bernard Coard - deputy PM. Widely perceived as the leader and would-be beneficiary of the coup (though he has consistently denied this)</span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Hudson Austin - head of the PRA and 'voice' of the coup<br />Jacky Creft - Minister of Education. Maurice's partner. 5 months pregnant with his child at time of execution<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The people in my story</span><br />Me - nice(ish) Jewish girl from London<br />H - the English woman I traveled with during my first 2 stays in Grenada<br />C - the English woman and close friend (still) who I met during my 2nd stay<br />J - the English woman and close friend (still) who was in Grenada June/July 2003. Mother of Gorgeous Goddaughter, born October 1986<br />L - my Grenadian partner<br />B - H's Grenadian partner<br />W - C's Grenadian partner<br />M - J's Grenadian partner. Father of Gorgeous Goddaughter<br />PC - local wheeler and dealer who acted as our mentor<br /><br />In the next post, I will be starting at the beginning, explaining how I came to be in Grenada in the first place and sharing my experiences of the revo at a time when it was still filled with hope and potential. Over the following posts, I will be relating events as they occurred, using my diaries to ensure accuracy.<br /><br />Writing this as fiction is impossible. For me, the whole point is that the truth should be known. The truth, unvarnished and unpalatable though it may be to some, as I saw it at the time.<br /><br />I said in the comments on my previous post that I only cried once during my 4 hours with Faye, the film maker. That response crystallised everything for me. I remembered all over again the exact moment when the Grenadian revo, and with it my own world, fell apart. And I remembered also how crucial it had seemed to me at the time to ensure people understood. I felt this huge weight of responsibility and it's never been discharged.<br /><br />As the years passed, it was clear that the defining event that most people associated with Grenada was the invasion. Not the revo. And not the coup. I too succumbed in the end. US Imperialism was an easy enemy to focus on. War is something people think they're able to wrap their minds around. And traumatic though the invasion had been, it became less painful for me to reflect on than the events that preceded it.<br /><br />Over time, my experiences coalesced into a series of well-worn, neatly-packaged anecdotes. Gone were the days when I had first returned to London in 1984, when people would go to great lengths to avoid my Ancient Mariner-esque intensity, determined to force them to see what I had seen and learn what I had learned.<br /><br />Well, those days are back. The posts that follow comprise a true and full record at last. Being a blog, people can choose whether to read or ignore, without me having to deal with the angst.<br /><br />But the words will be out there. Accessible to all. At last.</span></div></div>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-22292710080947602332023-01-05T08:40:00.001-08:002023-01-05T08:40:26.497-08:00Carnival 1982<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">February - March </span></div><br />
H and I spend a week in Trinidad for Carnival. We stay with the aunt of a friend. I say 'stay with' but in truth we're not there much between dropping off our bags and then picking them up again several days later. In between, we eat little, sleep less and party non-stop.<br />
<br />
I had been at every Notting Hill Carnival for years, but this is a whole different league. By the end of our stay, we're giddy and punch-drunk. Literally.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/41038000/jpg/_41038481_trinidad_carnival.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/41038000/jpg/_41038481_trinidad_carnival.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 203px;" /></a>I can't pretend we saw much of the island. Enough to get an impression of somewhere large, bustling and - in the city at least - industrialised. Apart from the tropical setting and the sheer scale of Carnival, it doesn't seem that unfamiliar in many ways.<br />
<br />
At Port of Spain International Airport, that all changes as we board the tiny island hopping plane that is the only way to reach Grenada by air in those days. Soon after, we touch down on the airstrip of miniature Pearls Airport. The relaxed and smiling greeting we receive from the people checking our passports gives us the feeling their interest is more curiosity than anything else, a far cry from the usual suspicion of airport officials elsewhere in the world.<br />
<br />
The impression is reinforced as we get into a cab to the capital, St Georges, on the other side of the island and pass by a massive hand-painted billboard - <span style="font-style: italic;">Welcome to Free Grenada</span>. Our hearts soar as we realise that we are privileged to be in for an experience unlike anything we've ever had before.<br />
<br />
The cab climbs into the hills, bumping along the pot-holed road - the only connection between the two coasts. Within minutes, we're swallowed by the rain forest. Dense, lush and seemingly impenetrable, shades of dark green studded with occasional splashes of vibrant colour, it exudes a sense of hot steamy mystery.<br />
<a href="http://www.caribbeancollection.ie/ImageDish.aspx?picid=606" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br />
We pass few people on the road, but those we do, all stop and stare. Some smile at us and wave. Every so often, we see more of the billboards, each hand-painted, no two the same. We don't know the exact significance of them all - only later, for example, do we understand that <span style="font-style: italic;">CPE is a Freedom School</span> refers to the Centre for Popular Education, which aims to wipe out illiteracy on the island.<br />
<br />
But if we don't always know the precise meanings, the intention is always clear. These are messages to uplift and inspire. The contrast between a unique billboard, portraying a smiling woman driving a tractor, and the ubiquitous ads we're bombarded with back in London, selling lingerie, cars, beer etc, is overwhelming.<br />
<br />
The road drops as we crest the island's mountainous spine. We emerge from the rain forest to see St Georges laid out below us. Though sprawling, it's little larger than a rural English village. As we drive through the outskirts, the wooden shacks and corrugated iron roofs give way to colonial style white and pastel concrete houses and shops.<br />
<br />
We stay the first couple of nights in a guesthouse in town, but we're on a tight budget and can't afford to spend the whole month there. On our first day, we go to visit Y, whose name was given to us by a Grenadian friend in London. Y is the head of Grencraft, the co-operative set up to produce, market and export the crafts that Grenadian people have been making for years, using the resources available: coral jewellery, spice baskets, shell artifacts, bowls and hats woven from palm fronds, wooden carvings, guava jelly ...<br />
<br />
Y explains that Grencraft is a powerful symbol of the Revo, both in terms of its success and because membership of the co-operative is voluntary. The people have said they want a mixed economy so that's what they've got. The will of the people is paramount. <span style="font-style: italic;">Is Freedom We Making.</span><br /><br /><div>Y introduces us to a woman who rents us a little board house just up from Grand Anse beach which, at two palm-fringed miles of silky sun-drenched sand, is the largest and best-known beach on the island. It isn't long before it's clear that the house may be 'little' to us, but it's palatial compared with the homes of most of the people we meet and having running water, electricity and an indoor toilet are luxuries denied to many. Another thing that soon becomes obvious though is that the people who have the least are the most generous. In that at least, Grenada is not unique.<br />
<br />
Everyone we meet is hospitable and friendly, almost without exception. In no time at all, we've learned how to cook on a coal pot using local ingredients and we're washing our clothes at the outdoor concrete sink.<br />
<br />
There's this amazing spirit of energy and empowerment in the air. It's palpable. You can feel it, taste it. People are proud, you see. Proud of their Revo and what they have achieved. They want to share it. They know full well that what they are doing is unique. The people of Grenada have created a different way of living and being. And as such, they are a beacon of hope to the rest of the world that another way can and does exist.<br />
<br />
Gradually, we begin to <span style="font-style: italic;">over</span>stand, as people there call the state beyond understanding. The Revo on 13th March, 1979, had replaced a corrupt dictator, Eric Gairy, whose increasingly repressive (and bizarre) demands had been enforced by his gang of hated and feared Mongoose Men. At the time of the coup, Gairy was out of the country (something to do with preparing to table a motion at the UN on his pet subject of UFOs) and the Revo was almost bloodless.<br />
<br />
Ordinary people had been oppressed and living in fear for so long, the coup - initiated by a group of young Grenadian radicals educated in the US and UK - had been joyously received, with the support of the vast majority of the population.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">What ensued was government as we know it in reverse, with the ordinary people at the top making the decisions and the government at the bottom, carrying them out. </span> In a series of meetings at local, parish and national level, people spoke out about the issues that mattered to them: poverty, unemployment, exploitation, education, agriculture, imports and exports, health, illiteracy and together they discussed possible solutions.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">This was a pure form of democracy, where every single issue of importance affecting people's lives was debated on and decided by the people themselves,</span> making a mockery of the idea that putting a cross on a piece of paper every four years, to choose between frying pans and fires to supposedly represent your interests, can be called 'democracy'.<br />
<br />
The energy and enthusiasm, the passion and clarity, the sheer 'rightness' of it all sweep us up and carry us along in its wake. We go to the International Women's Day celebrations and hear the iconic Angela Davis speak. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj18sEqxiB-98mBnMo2qd0WIX-cmvKrzgunkq-WDylRMXD-8crQMYLATzaN8GoJlylW5xtjnUIPt-z1hKcDbN0AVfZsXWEJYsyRVLK7QZAUR9ZVM0huToM4OryBfuF1BPoZg36tIUyXPZlQ9oHVt5b8_SW-h-dQAgb2tezMaccdy2jX0iIJtNfwUIgB/s3134/IMG_8781.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3134" data-original-width="2101" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj18sEqxiB-98mBnMo2qd0WIX-cmvKrzgunkq-WDylRMXD-8crQMYLATzaN8GoJlylW5xtjnUIPt-z1hKcDbN0AVfZsXWEJYsyRVLK7QZAUR9ZVM0huToM4OryBfuF1BPoZg36tIUyXPZlQ9oHVt5b8_SW-h-dQAgb2tezMaccdy2jX0iIJtNfwUIgB/s320/IMG_8781.HEIC" width="215" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Angela Davis Speaking at International Women's Day March 1982.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The following week is the 3rd anniversary of the Revo and this is when we first see Maurice Bishop, PM and head of the People's Revolutionary Government.<br />
<a href="http://www.radiojustice.net/Publish/ThePur1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeriJPgAQF0KgefE7QY5odfzDIsvDeO3aq7qzeGN5VWl2dqgqW2J6n1g95vKhZpQlnSHCfqcWj07KprI2B67CaQSPH-5Gh-Nq7sY4p91NNJ82FT3nQh-Eu3kP09h2OFh-6Cp9dsJibZDFhZwwEgqQO2M64u8EK29dKNCNE1R0-zswYAhoHGzO8_drY/s2923/IMG_8780%202.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1975" data-original-width="2923" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeriJPgAQF0KgefE7QY5odfzDIsvDeO3aq7qzeGN5VWl2dqgqW2J6n1g95vKhZpQlnSHCfqcWj07KprI2B67CaQSPH-5Gh-Nq7sY4p91NNJ82FT3nQh-Eu3kP09h2OFh-6Cp9dsJibZDFhZwwEgqQO2M64u8EK29dKNCNE1R0-zswYAhoHGzO8_drY/s320/IMG_8780%202.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Maurice Bishop Speaking at International Women's Day. Seated on the right (bearded) is Bernard Coard March 1982.</span></div></blockquote><p>Warm and inclusive, articulate and charismatic, and underlying it all, his obvious love for his people and pride in their achievements, his words bathe us in a glow, uplifting us as no other individual has before. Imagine the oratory and presence of Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela and now Barack Obama, and you'll come close to understanding how I feel on this day - that I am honoured and privileged to be in the presence of a man who appears maybe once in a generation and who exudes hopes of peace and justice and a better way.</p>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-6192226273651410272023-01-05T08:40:00.000-08:002023-01-05T08:40:03.729-08:00Fruits<a href="http://www.spiceislander.org/FLAG-grenada.gif"></a><div><br />
<div><div><b>February - March (continued)</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<div>Halfway through our stay and we're learning.</div><div><br /></div>
<div><i><div><i>Limes</i> are the most versatile of fruits. You can use them to make juice of course, but you can also use them to clean fish, as a disinfectant to scrub down work surfaces, in a marinade ... If you step on a sea urchin, half a lime rubbed on the sole of your foot will dissolve the spines.</div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2bTCcj1KvtK-63mkN_6KzFzF90bl9-0r5jHKL69hCjMRJobmW9kRGcalV2PC9YshoA1oa4Qhi39TWHV-6K1vFrcRHGokRX9MztFAzDgMNCKC3gRK0hFlTcGRK-oLTfUZDaNL-fNEUAyULoK-4JSe2N5lxYKDT-_5Rd0eXeaO3Kcw8oxEEj7SlXVM/s6720/pexels-valeria-boltneva-8236017%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4480" data-original-width="6720" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2bTCcj1KvtK-63mkN_6KzFzF90bl9-0r5jHKL69hCjMRJobmW9kRGcalV2PC9YshoA1oa4Qhi39TWHV-6K1vFrcRHGokRX9MztFAzDgMNCKC3gRK0hFlTcGRK-oLTfUZDaNL-fNEUAyULoK-4JSe2N5lxYKDT-_5Rd0eXeaO3Kcw8oxEEj7SlXVM/s320/pexels-valeria-boltneva-8236017%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table></div></i></div><br />
<div>The brown fibrous coconuts we've seen in funfairs are just the inner nut. Slice the top off a young <i>green waternut</i> and pop in a straw to drink the fragrant water. Then split the nut open and use the sliced off piece as a spoon to scoop out the jelly. </div><br />
<div>You don't drink the liquid inside a <i>mature coconut</i>. Instead, once you've ripped off the outer skin, slam the nut on the floor to break it. Drain off the liquid and and, using a sharp knife, gouge out the flesh. Grate it on a lethal home made grater made from a sheet of metal with holes stabbed into it and bent onto a wooden frame. (The skin on the ends of your fingers will eventually harden once the cuts have healed over.) Soak the grated coconut in water and squeeze it through a strainer. It's this liquid which you use to cook with. </div><br />
<div><i>Callaloo</i> may look like spinach but don't even think of tasting a raw piece. It'll take off the roof of your mouth.</div><br />
<div><i>Saltfish</i> should be soaked. boiled and rinsed several times before adding it to soup or rice and peas.</div><br />
<div><i>Bananas</i> are known as figs. Some, like plantain and bluggoe, have to be cooked but there are many different edible varieties too, each with their own unique taste. </div><br />
<div>We see <i>cocoa</i> being dried and visit a <i>spice</i> co-operative. Nutmeg, mace, cinnamon and cloves, along with bananas and cocoa, form the most important sources of Grenada's income. But the biggest source of all is <i>tourism</i>.</div><br />
<div>And here's something else we soon learn. Tourism is a two-edged sword.</div><br />
<div>Cruiseships have just started including Grenada again as a stopping off point on Caribbean cruises. The tourists come ashore for just a few hours. They descend on St Georges, sometimes dressed in skimpy beachware that is considered disrespectful by the modest Grenadians. Some are rude and arrogant. </div><br />
<div>The money they bring is vital, but their behaviour can sometimes cause resentment. It's a delicate balance. The revo has discouraged the old practice of children swimming out to the ships moored far out in deep water to dive for coins thrown from the deck. The self-respect and dignity engendered by the revo means that these days few young men will agree to shin up a palm tree to pose for a photo for a couple of dollars.</div><br />
<div>Then there are the longer term tourists. There is an ugly scene going on that is common in parts of the world where people are desperately poor. Unemployment is still rife and many people have the same desire to see other places and cultures that brought us to Grenada, except their desire is driven by poverty. </div><br />
<div>Many young men in particular see their only means of survival as hooking up with a woman tourist, who will pay for food, drink and so on during the stay. For some, these relationships can ultimately provide the only likely way off the island. </div><br />
<div>As for the women tourists, many come with absolute awareness of the power this gives them and some - not all, but plenty - are more than prepared to abuse this power. In fact, we are shocked to realise that many seem to come to the Caribbean for this specific purpose. Time and time again, we come across women behaving in ways that we consider exploitative and ignorant. We are determined to demonstrate our difference from these women in everything we say and do.</div><br />
<div>These are just some of the things we learn during that first month in Grenada. And through it all, underpinning everything, is the revo.</div><div><br /></div>
<div>We visit a woodwork co-operative on the other side of the island. We go to a ceremony to hand over new fishing boats - a gift from Cuba. We see a small military parade and thrill to know that those good-natured men, proudly carrying their guns and cheered by the bystanders, are not to be feared. Everywhere we are met with the same warm welcome, shy dignity and quiet pride. It is clear we are among a people who feel they are in control of their own destiny.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu3Jf9LHgTXUYiApoav11WFG1_hhmm76BP3nIMd0mgIhTYjH2IyoV3V2_FUGpTlp9gBdhyJbyIljJaCS6W68LtALXwumkUYuFxGuH6UyV1fBCmiT-pAgLG00MsUVMD-yCjDsd3rI05_iy_uUcaA_4JnUwLyPsNoTid9XIgn0uBBHpz4X-1hdKouU6r/s3408/IMG_8783.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2281" data-original-width="3408" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu3Jf9LHgTXUYiApoav11WFG1_hhmm76BP3nIMd0mgIhTYjH2IyoV3V2_FUGpTlp9gBdhyJbyIljJaCS6W68LtALXwumkUYuFxGuH6UyV1fBCmiT-pAgLG00MsUVMD-yCjDsd3rI05_iy_uUcaA_4JnUwLyPsNoTid9XIgn0uBBHpz4X-1hdKouU6r/s320/IMG_8783.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>
<div>And all this in the face of growing opposition from a paranoid US to the north, under the old cowboy himself, Reagan. And you know what? They're right to be scared. It's not that anyone really believes that tiny Grenada, even if they aligned with Nicaragua, Cuba and El Salvador, is going to topple the US beast militarily. </div><br />
<div>No. It's the ideology that scares them. They're worried that their own people will look at Grenada and see proof that a better and fairer system really can work. A system based on peace, love, justice, equality - not just a hippy Utopian dream, but in Grenada, a living reality. </div><br />
<div>The US administration tries everything to destabilise and isolate the revo and their propaganda machine pumps out desperate attempts to portray the revo as monstrous.</div><br />
<div><i>Look at who they're aligned with!</i> <i>Russia, Cuba, North Korea ... </i>the US screams in panic.</div><div>Yes, Grenadians reply, but only because they're the only ones who will recognise and trade with us. You've refused our every attempt to establish links.</div><br />
<div><i>They hold no elections!</i> the US gibbers in desperation.</div><div>One day we might, Grenadians reply, but right now we don't see it as a priority. Meanwhile, our system is far more democratic than yours.</div><br />
<div><i>There's only one newspaper! </i>the US rants, scraping the barrel.</div><div>True, but it's not difficult to get foreign papers. That's hardly full-scale repression, Grenadians reply with a shrug.</div><br />
<div>For every accusation, there is a plausible and logical response. It's not too good to be true. It's real. And it's happening. Here. Now.</div><br />
<div>At what point do we decide we have to return, and not just for a holiday? That somehow, in some way that is appropriate, we have to contribute and be, as much as possible under the circumstances, a part of it all? Not to leech off the revo, but to find a way to use the resources we have access to back in London to support it...</div><br />
<div>It may have been earlier, but if not, it could have been on our last night. We hold a party in our little board house, perched on the hill overlooking the bay, and invite everyone we've met. As the evening draws to an end and we have to prepare to say goodbye to our new friends, to whom we have become so close, so fast, something phenomenal happens. </div><br />
<div>One by one, each person stands and makes a solemn speech. They tell us how much they've valued our friendship. How they appreciate our efforts to truly <i>over</i>stand their island story. How they hope to see us again. We should hurry back. Or rather, forward. No one uses the word 'back' with its negative connotations. The motto of the revo, is <i>Forward Ever, Backward Never</i>.</div><br />
<div>Or maybe the final decision came on our last morning. The woodwork co-operative had asked us to come in on our way to the airport. We were running late after all the farewells nearer home, but couldn't leave without saying goodbye. Jumping from the cab, we're met by one of the workers. She looks anxious when we say we can't stay long and says she's not sure if they're dry yet. Mystified, we follow her round a corner and see a row of handmade wooden trays lying on the ground, their glossy varnish drying in the sun. Each is painted with a map of Grenada.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyT6v8dtLEX8bydxIKX9wTZHDi2-Q2lVzI8im3jWi5Trzvlx6tIcn_KiSFAe18ycqoUftaRR5GizOFbIPMP_2uo7LnAOdScNr-Gf4tGR801VVG62o1_Fiho7XXbYPjXotptjog_M8J_B8biMBiLS4_1D8qEXjUh6ihWazKLsJgc5X4ZYlM-sTI5q4a/s3092/IMG_8784.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2109" data-original-width="3092" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyT6v8dtLEX8bydxIKX9wTZHDi2-Q2lVzI8im3jWi5Trzvlx6tIcn_KiSFAe18ycqoUftaRR5GizOFbIPMP_2uo7LnAOdScNr-Gf4tGR801VVG62o1_Fiho7XXbYPjXotptjog_M8J_B8biMBiLS4_1D8qEXjUh6ihWazKLsJgc5X4ZYlM-sTI5q4a/s320/IMG_8784.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>
<div>With a smile, the woman picks up two of the trays and hands them to us. We're overwhelmed. Like I say, it's the people who have the least who are the most generous.</div><div><br /></div><div>We board the tiny plane at Pearls, sad to leave but with eyes that have been opened and lives that have been changed. We know beyond any doubt that the story of our connection with Grenada has only just begun.</div><br />
<div><i>Over quarter of a century later, I still have that tray. Still use it. Though the varnish has dulled and the map has faded, it's still here. I can touch it, gaze at it, run my hands over the smooth wood.</i></div><br />
<div><i>If only the revo had lasted as long ...<br /></i> </div></div></div>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-86529598092518957672023-01-05T08:39:00.003-08:002023-01-05T08:39:52.780-08:00London<span style="font-weight: bold;">April - June </span><br />
<br />Our plane touches down at Gatwick, but in our hearts, we're still flying high.<br />
<br />
We're determined to return to Grenada as soon as possible, though logistically, the problems seem insurmountable. My 5 year relationship with F is at an end, I have nowhere to live, no job and no savings.<br />
<br />
But you know how it is. When you're feeling positive, it can seem as though life itself is charmed. F meets us at the airport. When he hears our intention to only remain in the UK for a few months, he agrees I should stay in the flat we've shared in Acton, maintaining our relationship, but moving into the spare bedroom.<br />
<br />
Within the first week, I'm contacted by a friend who tells me there's a vacancy where she works for someone to do stock control and accounts to provide maternity cover. The pay is far more than I have ever earned before.<br />
<br />
J and I start a self-defence class. We're such naturals, the instructor keeps us behind after every class to give us free extra sessions.<br />
<br />
Sorted. Everything's going my way. I have an ongoing relationship (which had always been non-monogamous), somewhere to live and an income that will enable me to save. Once we come up with a practical plan, we should be able to return to Grenada well within the year.<br />
<br />
If this was fiction, you'd know something would go wrong at this point. When the main protagonist believes everything's going her way, she'd better look out.<br />
<br />
Well, this isn't fiction, but...<br />
<br />
On Mayday, 1982, J and I go off to our self-defence class. This is no fancy martial arts technique we are learning, but rough tough street fighting. Each week we've compared bruises and pulled muscles after our extended session. On this day, one of my injuries is to my knee. It's not 'til I get home, put my feet up and watch my knee balloon before my eyes that I realise this is more serious than the usual knocks.<br />
<br />
To cut this part of my story short, the following year is filled with appalling pain, daily gruelling physio, 3 operations and a long period when I'm totally bed-ridden. Meanwhile, my relationship is disintegrating round my ears, culminating with F moving another woman in soon after I get home from hospital after the first op.<div><br />The knowledge that eventually I will be returning to Grenada is the only thing that keeps me going. There are few bright spots in that difficult year, and they're all connected with a tiny island half the world away:<br />
<ul><li>The management where I'm working are really supportive and understanding. They arrange for me to have lifts into work and take time off each day for physio. During the weeks and then months when I can't get out, they deliver work for me to do at home and collect it the next day. I do it sitting up in bed, leaning on my Grenada tray.</li>
<li>Since I'm not in a position to go anywhere, at least I can save all my earnings.</li>
<li>I meet a guy at work who's Grenadian. He has a house in Tempe, just outside St Georges, and agrees we can rent it from him when we eventually return.</li>
<li>H and I come up with a scheme whereby we believe we can contribute something meaningful to the revo. We know the revolution has gone along way to eradicating illiteracy on the island, but there is a lack of decent reading material. There's a library in St Georges, but it's underused and stocked with literature left over from the colonial period. Jane Austen and Thomas Hardy are all very well, but there are few if any contemporary or more relevant books. Meanwhile, in London, we have access to an outpouring of wonderful literature from authors like Alice Walker and Toni Morrison. Books by writers in the US, Caribbean, South America, Africa...We come up with the idea of a mobile library, regularly visiting all areas of the island including the remote rural villages, stocked with all these amazing books. If we could set it up, with funding and donations organised here, we could stock it, get it on the road and then hand it over to the revo.</li>
<li>I also buy a decent 35mm camera and we sign up as stringers for a leftie photo agency based in London.</li>
</ul>So, theoretically, everything is in place. All we need is for me to be fit enough. It takes a year. In the end, I get there with the help of a wonderful osteopath, a change in hospital and a move out from the poisonous atmosphere of the flat and into a short-term place in a communal house in Shepherds Bush. I'm, finally able to put aside my walking stick and, together with H and J, book my ticket for Grenada.<br />
<br />
Armed with a list of exercises and a supply of homeopathic remedies, we bid farewell to family and friends and set off to fulfil a dream.</div>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-2446271762301323082023-01-05T08:39:00.002-08:002023-01-05T08:39:28.941-08:00No Stopovers<span style="font-weight: bold;">June - September </span><br />
<a href="http://www.merinews.com/upload/thumbimage/1214224140967_Mango_tree_.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br />
No stopovers this time. We change planes at Barbados and then it's straight onto Grenada, to our new home in Tempe. J is staying for two months. H and I have open tickets. As far as we're concerned, we haven't come for a holiday. This is life we're living.<br />
<br />
Geographically, Tempe is in a shallow bowl. Behind the house is a steep hill leading up to the Governor General's residence on the top and then down into St Georges on the other side. On the opposite side of the house is another hill leading up to the Lord Chief Justice's home. From my bedroom window, you can see yet another hill, with three forts, the prison and the mental hospital (known locally as 'the crazy house') lined up along its spine. Of the two other roads branching off from the strategic Tempe crossroads, one heads towards Queen's Park and the coast road and the other leads to Mt Parnassus and the interior of the island.<br />
<br />
Our new home is a 'wall' (concrete) house down a small track with just five other 'yards'. On the ground floor lives A, a single man who tends the land and watches over the property. We have the first floor: a balcony, two bedrooms, a living room, separate toilet, shower and kitchen. Luxury indeed. The house is surrounded by trees, with a vast mango tree looming over the back. Beyond the grove at the back of the house is a stream and behind that, more trees and then the road.<br />
<br />
Things should have been perfect. It's soon clear, however, that we have made an unfortunate error of judgment. In our enthusiasm to spread the word about the Grenadian revolution, we've encouraged everyone we know to come and stay with us. In our heads, we see this as giving people a unique opportunity to experience the revo firsthand, as well as being good for the island economy. We'd failed to predict the kind of problems it might cause.<br />
<br />
For the first four months we're there, we have a constant stream of visitors, lying on pieces of foam in every corner of the house. Although many of them are people we love dearly, they are there for a holiday, while we have a very different agenda. We'd visualised our guests being independent and just using the house as a base from which to explore. The reality is that we feel people have expectations from us as hosts and tour guides. The sheer numbers of people passing through means that at times it feels like we're living in a 20th century version of the Big Brother house. It was a tricky situation and in retrospect, I don't think we handled it well.<br />
<br />
We're so preoccupied with these group dynamics, it proves difficult to pursue our own objectives. H and I do go along to the library in St Georges and meet with the head librarian to talk about the mobile library proposal. She's gratifyingly positive and says our next move should be to register ourselves and our proposal with the Ministry for National Mobilisation.<br />
<br />
Our visit to the Ministry is one of the high points of those early months in terms of advancing our plans to contribute to the revo. We have an informal chat about the library, talking about our plans to obtain funding and showing publishers' lists, and we also share our intentions to take photos in a semi-official capacity. We're given a form to complete - a sort of CV giving our personal background.<br />
<br />
As we fill it in on the spot, we laugh at the contrast to any similar form we might encounter back home. There, we would take care to make no mention of our political activities. Here, the reverse is true. Delighted at the liberation of telling the whole truth on an official form, we list every one of our involvements, giving info that the authorities back in England would no doubt rub their hands with glee over. We hold back nothing. Checking the form, the comrade nods in approval. He tells us that the next stage should be to arrange a meeting with Maurice to discuss our plans in detail.<br />
<br />
Imagine that. We hope to set up a relatively small-scale project and are told after just two meetings that our next step should be to meet up with the Prime Minister! And that's what it was like...This process is as good an illustration as any of the unique nature of the Grenadian revo and the pivotal role that Maurice played.<br /><br />
You see, Maurice not only embodied the revo, he was the living, breathing personification of it. In the evenings, he could still be found sitting in roadside bars, drinking, playing dominoes, chatting and listening. Always listening. He never put himself apart from the ordinary people, let alone above them.<br />
<br />
Universally perceived as open, humble, trustworthy - his skills had been recognised by his comrades in the Party. He had buckets filled with the sort of charisma none of the others possessed. While things were going well, his comrades were happy to exploit Maurice's ability to inspire trust and confidence. Only later, was this twisted to show evidence of his so called 'one-manism' and petit bourgeois tendencies of self-promotion. But that was later and I'm not there yet...<br />
<br />
Before things started to unravel, the people had all the evidence they needed to prove Maurice trusted them as much as they trusted him. When they said they wanted a mixed economy, that's what they got. When they said they'd like to move towards elections, if only to silence their critics, Maurice agreed.<br />
<br />
Put at its most simple, Maurice wanted the revo to move at a pace and in a direction dictated by the people. The trust the people had in him was absolute. It was also mutual.<br />
<br />
The problems were already beginning to rise to the surface by that time, though we were perhaps less aware of them than we might have been if we hadn't been distracted by our stream of guests.<br />
<br />
While Maurice was sitting in roadside bars talking to ordinary people, his comrades in the government were sitting in closed rooms talking to each other. While Maurice was convinced of the innate ability of ordinary people to get to the heart of the issues and come up with the best responses, his comrades felt very differently.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">They</span> were educated. <span style="font-style: italic;">They</span> were well-versed in Marxist theory. <span style="font-style: italic;">They</span> were the elite, the vanguard. Of course,<span style="font-style: italic;"> they</span> knew the correct direction for the revo to take - far better than the uneducated lumpen proletariat masses.<br />
<br />
It's sad evidence of how far removed some members of the PRG were from the reality that they should have had that impression and got it so wrong. It seems they had no idea of the true miracle of the Revo: the way ordinary people had responded and risen to the challenge of controlling their own destiny.<br />
<br />
They certainly underestimated the will of the people, but I'm getting ahead of myself again. The extent of the alienation wouldn't be clear for another few months yet.<br />
<br />
There are indications that all is not well though, in those first few months of our second stay in Grenada. Distracted though we are, I can see the signs of changes since the previous year. Individuals selling coral and other crafts by hustling direct to tourists are being - if not outright harassed - certainly strongly discouraged. We meet fewer ordinary people involved in the network of meetings, while Party members working directly for the revolutionary cause seem drained and exhausted.<br />
<br />
A gap seems to have opened up between the Party and the people. Or maybe between the government and the people. Or the Central Committee...Or perhaps it is between certain members of the government...<br />
<br />
But one thing is becoming clear: wherever this gap is, the mass of the people are on one side as opposed to being part of a unified whole.<br />
<br />
'Where's JH?' I ask one day, remembering a Rasta I'd met the previous year.<br />
'He's up at the camp,' I'm told.<br />
'<span style="font-style: italic;">Camp?</span> What camp?'<br />
<br />
And so I hear about this place where 'undesirable counter-revolutionary elements' are held without trial or any due process, for purposes of 're-education'. On further inquiry, I discover more about the definition of 'undesirable'. There are lots of Rastas up at the camp, I'm told, as well as anyone considered unsuitable to be around tourists. Most are not criminals as such, nor are they accused of organising political resistance. Put simply, these are people perceived as 'not fitting' with the image the revolution wishes to project.<br />
<br />
Yes. Now I think about it, the signs the revo had reached a crucial stage and was struggling were there by then, the fourth year of the revo.<br />
<br />
But it was still far from clear who was on which side of the gap that had opened up or how deep and wide it would become.<br />
<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-25902192710553289802023-01-05T08:39:00.001-08:002023-01-05T08:39:16.804-08:00The Beginning of the End<span style="font-style: italic;">Right. You know about Grenada. You know about the revo. And you know about me. I've set the scene and assembled the cast. There's nothing for it now but to embark on the part I've dreaded the most.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">From here onwards, I'll be using the detailed diaries I kept at the time to ensure accuracy.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
<br />
So this is it. The beginning of the end.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">September 23rd</span><br />
<br />
On 23rd September, the last of our overseas guests leaves. R is a good friend and I'm very sad to see him go, though I relish the thought of having our space back and being able to focus on our reason for being here.<br />
<br />
On his last evening, R and I climb to the top of the hill behind our house. From here, we can see for miles in every direction, across seas and forests and mountains. But what we have come for is the light show in the West.<br />
<br />As we stand awestruck, the sun drips into the ocean, staining sky and sea alike with colours so vivid and outrageous, no artist could recreate them and be believed. It's one of those Caribbean sunsets that is so over the top, it's almost too much to handle.<br />
<br />
'Y'know,' I say, 'When you get something like this that's so spectacular that it's overwhelming, it's a good idea to tear your eyes away for a moment. What you see as you look in the other directions may well be more subtle but just as beautiful in its own way.'<br />
<br />
As I speak, I pivot slowly on the spot. As I turn my back on the pulled-out-all-the-stops sunset and face East, I gasp, tears welling up in my eyes. High in the sky is the thinnest brightest sliver of new moon. And curved over it with flawless symmetry is a perfect rainbow, arching over the crescent like a protective mother sheltering her newborn child.<br />
<br />
I don't know whether I say the words aloud, but I do remember thinking them.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Sometimes it feels like life here is too perfect.</span><br />
R leaves the following day and we attempt to occupy our space and regain our focus. But life has a habit of ignoring the agenda you've composed for yourself and imposing its own. There are tensions between the men in the house and inevitably these spill over onto us.<br />
<br />
On 1st October, a week after R leaves, H becomes ill with a high fever. Her lover, B, has never been what you'd call gregarious, but is now becoming more and more withdrawn. The two of them retreat to their room, emerging rarely. Over a week later, H is still ill. N and I are sponging her off and are alarmed to see the sweat is literally spurting from every pore. It's clear she is seriously ill with something that isn't going to just run its course and be shaken off.<br />
<br />
H is admitted to hospital in St Georges on 13th October and diagnosed with Hepatitis B, probably contracted from an insect bite. In the hospital, she has a bed and medical treatment. But that's all. Sheets, pillows, food etc all have to be brought in. I will have to get up in the morning, cook, take the food to hospital, sit with H a while, return home to cook again, then back to the hospital...There isn't much room for anything else.<br />
<br />
At home B has gone down with bronchitis, but, more worryingly, his mental state is giving cause for serious concern. When we'd first arrived in Tempe, we'd taken up the carpet floor tiles, worried they might get damaged. One of B's many anxieties centres round his feet coming into contact with the concrete floor. He lays tracks of carpet tiles around the house, linking the bedroom with the toilet, bathroom and kitchen and on his rare forays from the bedroom he follows these tracks with a rigid intensity.<br />
<br />
People fear madness. It's too close and too real. It's almost as if we're scared it's contagious. And who knows, maybe it is. Whether or not that's true, with H in hospital, B's condition freaking out anyone who comes into contact with him, and constant arguments raging, our home has moved in the space of a week from being a cool place for people to come and hang out at all hours of day and night to a hollow shell filled with bad vibes and a tense and poisonous atmosphere.<br />
<br />
It's a microcosm, the turmoil within echoing the increasing tension in the island as a whole. The day after H is admitted to hospital, we hear that Maurice has been placed under house arrest. On my way to visit her, I find town is buzzing and rumours are flying. People are angry and confused, demanding to know the reasons for the arrest and to hear Maurice speak for himself to explain. Although the determination is clear, I sense an undercurrent of fear too. There are crowds gathering in the market square and lots of army vehicles visible on the streets.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.softadventure.net/Grenadamarket.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.softadventure.net/Grenadamarket.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 182px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 270px;" /></a>In the afternoon, Radio Free Grenada relays a statement from Coard's office, saying he'd resigned as a result of rumours circulating last week that he and his wife, Phyllis, were plotting to kill Maurice. The statement goes on to say that 'certain elements led by an insurance company owner' had then seized weapons with the intention of killing the Coards.<br />
<br />
There follows a message from the Security Forces - saying that anyone found spreading rumours will be arrested! After that, there's the news in which we're told that Maurice's chief of staff has been arrested for starting the original rumour.<br />
<br />
The news says nothing about Maurice's current whereabouts and neither confirms nor denies that he is under house arrest. So<span style="font-style: italic;"> rumours</span>, now apparently illegal, are the only thing left to fill the vacuum. On the streets I hear various versions: that Maurice is being held at home, in prison, on a Cuban ship...<br />
<br />
A party member who I know slightly tells me that Maurice had refused to share power and had started the assassination rumour himself and had therefore been arrested. It's vital to point out that he is one of only two people who I hear criticising Maurice and attempting to lay the blame for the crisis on him.<a href="http://ipsnews.net/fotos/bishop_and_coard_final.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://ipsnews.net/fotos/bishop_and_coard_final.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 190px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 78%;">Photo of Maurice Bishop and Bernard Coard from <a href="http://images.google.co.uk/imgres?imgurl=http://ipsnews.net/fotos/bishop_and_coard_final.jpg&imgrefurl=http://ipsnews.net/news.asp%3Fidnews%3D38352&usg=__HPYcjCdbCHIPR0XubJ4yl5KZ_tI=&h=190&w=200&sz=12&hl=en&start=17&sig2=By87t6ox3uotzc2mzZ3ung&tbnid=wvZtFlv77-wa9M:&tbnh=99&tbnw=104&ei=wNt5SZ-wBKO1jAeTxKC3AQ&prev=/images%3Fq%3D%2522Maurice%2BBishop%2522%2B%252B%2B%2522Bernard%2BCoard%2522%26as_st%3Dy%26gbv%3D2%26ndsp%3D21%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DN">IPS News</a></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">To add to the confusion, L tells me he's seen the insurance company owner mentioned in the radio statement and that he's still free and walking around. No one knows what to believe or who to trust. Maurice himself is the one certainty. He could explain what's happening, given the chance. L also tells me that people in St Paul's are ready to take up arms to defend Maurice.</div><br />
Except no one knows where he is. And those who do know, aren't saying.Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-57813472547843921692023-01-05T08:39:00.000-08:002023-01-05T08:39:03.357-08:00The Last Days of the Revo <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />
<br />
Saturday 15th October</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://home.att.net/%7Edlmck/fist02.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br />
The mood in town is tense and very angry. After my first trip to the hospital I go to the market square. Kenrick Radix, a member of the People's Revolutionary Government (PRG), is in the square, drumming up support for Maurice. A demo begins with placards saying, 'We want Maurice'.<br />
<br />
You have to understand. This is a place where, for four and a half years, the people have been led to believe that they are in control of what happens in their country. Now things are happening that they're not even being told about. They've even been instructed not to talk about them! Taking to the streets to voice their concerns has always been an integral part of the revo and was the logical next step to ensure their voices were being heard.<br />
<br />
I meet another party member who's keen to give her version of what's going on. She tells me Maurice had been 'misbehaving' for some time; holding back development, misdirecting funds, hanging onto power for himself ... She even hints at a possible CIA connection but says the party's hands were tied because of the popular support Maurice has.<br />
<br />
She's twitchy, as well she might be given how out of step her perceptions are with almost everyone else around us. The Central Committee are now in control of the country, she confides, and they're organising house-to-house visits to explain the situation. She tells me that the problems have been going on for a year but the Central Committee's hand has now been forced. The alternative is bloodshed. The Committee are currently meeting to decide on what action to take.<br />
<br />
It sounds so plausible, but I don't buy it for one moment, and neither does anyone else I speak to. For the first time, I hear Hudson Austin's name mentioned. He's the chief of the People's Revolutionary Army (PRA) and L tells me he backs Coard. That means it's unclear where the army's loyalty lies. From her hospital window, H saw troops mobilising on the beach last night, though she couldn't see what they were up to.<br />
<a href="http://www.ushrnetwork.org/files/ushrn/images/old_radio.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br />
Each time I come home from the hospital, I switch on the radio. Regional stations report confusion and sketchy details. Flights are still ok but phone communications have apparently been disrupted. On Radio Free Grenada (RFG) a spokesperson denies reports from elsewhere in the Caribbean that several members of the government have been arrested but he gives no further info.<br />
<br />
In other words, we're being told what's <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> happening, but are given no clue as to what <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span>.<br />
<br />
So ... H is in hospital, B is both physically and mentally sick and L is making himself scarce. In the evening, I stay home, glued to the radio. The Prime Minister's office (just who the Prime Minister is at this point is a question not addressed) states,<br />
'No questions will be answered to journalists in this period.'<br />
What is it that they are hiding?<br />
<br />
At 6.00 pm there's a new development. Leon Cornwall, a PRG and Central Committee member, who, with Hudson Austin, heads up the People's Revolutionary Army (PRA), delivers a statement. It's still a confusing mish-mash of rumour and counter rumour, but this time Maurice is finally mentioned. He's directly blamed for starting the original rumour and criticised for holding onto power for himself. The same rules apply to everyone, he says, and that is why action had to be taken against Maurice.<br />
'The party will tolerate no one-manism. The army is united down to the last private,' he warns.<br />
<br />
The tone of the broadcast is very heavy and repressive. As I sit scribbling down his words in my diary, a chill runs through my veins. Nothing like this has been heard before. It's clear we've entered a new stage.<br />
<br />
The 7.00 pm news says that Kenrick Radix resigned two days ago and that a number of the organisers of today's demo 'and other people involved' have been detained. It's not clear if this includes Radix or not. So now people are not allowed to demonstrate in the tradition of the revo and they're not allowed to conjecture about what's going on. The news makes no mention of the earlier statement by Leon Cornwall on behalf of the PRA and the omission leads to a feeling of unreality.<br />
<br />
This can't be happening ...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Sunday 16th October</span><br />
<br />
In between hospital visits I catch the midday news, which confirms that Radix is among those arrested. It's announced that an 'important statement' will be made this evening at 10.00 pm.<br />
<br />
In the event, it's not 'til midnight, long after most Grenadians have gone to bed, that the statement by Hudson Austin on behalf of the PRA is broadcast. Austin confirms what I heard from the party member yesterday: that Maurice wanted power, that the problems had been hidden from the people for the sake of unity, that he is responsible for the current situation.<br />
<br />
I sit alone in the dark and wonder if they really believe the people will swallow this line. All along people have been demanding to hear Maurice speak for himself and there's no sign of that being allowed to happen. They're not allowed to talk about what's going on in case they're arrested for spreading rumours and they're not allowed to demonstrate. They've gone from being in control to being controlled. And they're expected to just accept their new status? Surely, those who now are clearly the ones holding the reins of power must know that's not going to happen ...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Monday 17th October</span><br />
<br />
Another demo was supposed to take place today but the rain is pouring down in sheets and people are keeping their heads down.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Tuesday 18th October</span><br />
<br />
H is discharged from hospital and I bring her home. Though she's still weak and far from well, it will be a relief not to have to make the twice daily trips into town. She has to be on a very restricted diet - no fats at all while her liver recovers - and that's going to stretch my powers of invention.<br />
<br />
C tells me she attended a NACDA political education meeting today. A spokesperson from the Ministry of National Mobilisation was grilled by the co-op workers. The questions they ask demonstrates their clear grasp of the issues:<br />
'Who has more power - the party or the people?'<br />
'Who has more power - the party or the security forces?'<br />
'What's the reason why we're not allowed to see Maurice?'<br />
'How is it decided whether a person is a comrade or not? We've noticed that RFG has started referring to Kenrick as "Mr" Radix, while others are still referred to as "comrade".'<br />
<br />
The spokesman let slip that Jacky Creft, the Minister for Education and Maurice's partner, is 'up there with Maurice'.<br />
In a frantic attempt to claw back lost ground he says that she's only there because Maurice asked for her. This response is met with jeers of disbelief.<br />
'So she's under house arrest too,' observes an astute co-op member.<br />
'No one's under house arrest,' the hapless spokesman protests. 'Maurice is confined to his home for security reasons.'<br />
'What's the difference?'<br />
'There's a difference in law. Radix, on the other hand, is detained ...'<br />
<br />
Weasel words and no one's taken in.<br />
<br />
On the 7.00 pm news we're told that Errol George, Maurice's security officer, has made a statement implicating Maurice. Three hundred people demonstrated in St Andrews earlier today, marching to Pearls airport, the newsreader tells us.<br />
<br />
Then - bizarre and surreal - there's a business-as-usual statement about the economy. As though all this is just a blip and everything is going to be fine.<br />
<br />
I go to bed that night filled with dread and unable to sleep.<br />
<br />
But nobody knows at this point that the sun has set on the last day of the Grenadian revo.<br />
<br /><br />Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-65964259190658696842023-01-05T08:38:00.003-08:002023-01-05T08:38:51.011-08:00Coup<span style="font-weight: bold;">Wednesday 19th October</span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">
<br />
</span></span></div>As soon as I wake up, I turn on the radio. The 7.00am news on Radio Free Grenada talks of possible reconciliation between Maurice and the Central Committee. It also reports several people - mostly school students - have been arrested as a result of the demo in St Andrews yesterday.<br />
<br />
It doesn't surprise me that students are in the forefront of the protests. The revo's energy and zest for life is largely a result of the relative youth of its main supporters. School students are the pioneers, the flowers of the revolution. Young, educated and idealistic, these young people's vision is unsullied by memories of Grenada's colonial past. It's the future that they concentrate on and they believe it belongs to them.<br />
<br />
At 8.15am RFG broadcasts a statement from the Ministry of Education. The tone is heavier than anything we've heard so far. Students are being led by counters (counter revolutionaries) we're told. Anonymous phone calls have been made to schools giving details of demos and saying students should be allowed to attend. <span style="font-style: italic;">But the duty of students is to study - and nothing else! </span> This is shocking and goes against everything these young radicals have previously been led to believe about their role in the vanguard of the revo.<br />
<br />
At some point in the morning, I say goodbye to C with a heavy heart. H and B are both ill and holed up in their bedroom and I've come to rely on C more and more over the last couple of weeks. She's going to Carriacou, Grenada's dot-in-the-ocean sister island, for a few days to do some work for a UK Law Centre on behalf of a Grenadian woman in London. She'd thought about postponing the trip, but when to? Who can say whether things will be better or worse in a few days time?<br />
<br />
M left early this morning for his job as 'bag boy', collecting fares on a local bus, and L is off somewhere on the hustle. I go to the local shop and meet PC who gives me waternuts and callalloo for H. He tells me there will be 'a war on the streets of St Georges today' and that under no circumstances should I attempt to go into town. There's talk of shops shutting so I get as much food in as I can.<br />
<br />
Back home, I start cooking cornmeal porridge for the invalids. I'm halfway through when our gas cylinder, which fuels our two burner cooker, runs out. At the best of times, this is a pain. You have to lug the empty cylinder into town and exchange it for a full one, which is too heavy for one person to carry alone. Instead, I go to C's house and swap our empty cylinder for her fuller one and finish off the porridge back home.<br />
<br />
At 11.00am RFG goes off the air. This silence is far more frightening than when they were broadcasting things no one wished to hear. On the midday news, Trinidad radio says that Maurice has been freed by supporters who stormed his home, meeting only token resistance. He's now in St Georges with a crowd of 3000 people. What follows is an exclusive interview with Maurice's mother.<br />
<br />
Carna news says that Louison has been arrested and that all international phone lines are down now. They are receiving their information via anonymous telex messages.<br />
<br />
At 1.30pm 610 News says that the army has opened fire on people in the market.<br />
<br />
I'm here in Grenada. Just over the hill behind our house something huge is going on, history is being made. Yet the only access I have to information is the radio, from regional stations broadcasting from miles away. Twitchy and anxious, I can't settle and pace up and down, stopping only to fiddle with the radio. I decide to tape the broadcasts. Whatever is happening, it's clear we're living through history and I feel the need to record and bear witness.<br />
<br />
Then something happens that changes my attitude. H says that now our cylinder has run out, I have reason to go into town and should do so. I'm shocked! If I do go in, I tell her, I'm going to have to be able to duck and dive, react and run if necessary. I can't do that while dragging round an empty gas cylinder, let alone a full one. And anyway, I can't imagine the shops will be open.<br />
<br />
Arguing the case though, I experience a paradigm shift. Up until now, I've been obeying PC's instructions not to leave Tempe without any thought of ignoring his warnings. We've always said that we should listen to and respect what we're told by local people and not assume we know better. But now I'm thinking that maybe...just maybe...I should go into town after all.<br />
<br />
Soon after, L arrives home, wide-eyed and freaked having heard gunfire, though he came from Grand Anse and avoided going near town. Now that he's here I assume he will come with me into town to check out the scene. I shower and change and emerge ready to go. L looks at me in disbelief. There's no way he's going to go back there, he says.<br />
<br />
So now I have to decide. Do I heed PC's warnings and the evidence that the situation is highly volatile and stay home? If so, I will have to live for ever with the knowledge that I stayed on the periphery, content to look after number one, while life and death struggles took place just a couple of short miles away.<br />
<br />
At 3.00pm Radio Antilles says that Maurice and Radix have been rearrested, that shots have been heard in St Georges and there is a car burning. Radio 610 says at 4.30pm that Maurice is in the hospital and that several ministers have been shot. Who's correct? How reliable is their information? I'm right here, but I don't know what's going on...<br />
<br />
I can bear it no longer. I tell L, H and B that I'm going into town. I'll go the back route, up the hill. That way I can look down on St Georges and get an idea of what's happening. If I decide to go in, it will be downhill and I'll be able to react to anything I see happening ahead and if necessary turn back.<br />
<br />
I have no idea what to expect. I'm alone and nothing in my life has prepared me for anything like this. As I begin to walk up the hill, I see a couple limping towards me. The woman is supporting the man and I see a small round red-rimmed hole in the thigh of his trouser leg.<br />
'Oh,' I think. 'That's a bullet wound...'<br />
<br />
But - and this is the strangest thing - the couple appear calm. They call out to people as they pass and the way they speak seems somehow normal and every day. I've never seen people in shock before and I seize on their apparent calmness as reassuring.<br />
<br />
Things are obviously bad, I assume - but not unbearable. My brain does acrobatic stunts to justify this assumption. OK - Maurice has no doubt been rearrested and clearly there has been gunfire. In my deluded state I decide that the soldiers must have all been firing low. There will be injuries of course, but probably all to people's legs.<br />
<br />
Nothing fatal. Of course, nothing fatal. Grenadian soldiers are not going to fire on and kill their own people. It's unthinkable.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.planetware.com/i/map/GRE/st-georges-map.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.planetware.com/i/map/GRE/st-georges-map.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 191px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 217px;" /></a>At the top of the hill, there's a small group of people looking down over town. They talk of seeing smoke and gunfire from Fort Rupert, but apart from that they know no more than I do. My frustration grows. Do I just hang about here and then go home again, none the wiser than when I left? I tell the people I'm going to go in. They warn me to take care.<br />
<br />
The road down into the market square is quiet. I'm jumpy and ready to react to any developments. If necessary, I can run into that house, I think, or duck down that alleyway, or hide behind that wall. But nothing happens. And in some ways that's worse. The unseen...the unknown...<br />
<br />
I emerge into the market square. It's almost deserted, apart from half a dozen people liming against the shops bordering the square. There's the strangest vibe - an eerie stillness and hollow silence. So what do I do now? Stay there? Walk up the other hill to the fort? Go back home with nothing still to report? I decide to join the straggle of limers and wait for a while.<br />
<br />
A guy I don't recognise comes over and starts to question me. The questions are the ones I've been asked a hundred times before: who am I? where am I from? He might just be chatting me up or he might be understandably suspicious. He doesn't know who I am but the distrust is mutual and I feel uncomfortable with the scrutiny.<br />
<br />
Then things start to happen and when they do, events pile up fast. At that moment, against all expectation, a bus swings into the square filled with people. With relief and delight, I recognise the bus M works on.<br />
'I have to check my friend,' I tell my interrogator and run across the empty square to greet M.<br />
<br />
As I reach the bus, from which people are climbing down as though it's a normal day, we hear shouts and running feet. Turning to look over my shoulder, I see a small crowd running in obvious panic down the hill leading to the fort and they scatter across the square. One of them is PC. On seeing me, he yells in fury.<br /><br /><div>
'I told you not come! Get out! Get out!'<br />
<br />
We hear a rumbling from the direction of the road the people emerged from. M grabs me and yanks me onto the bus. With just him, me and the driver on board the bus screeches out of the square. As we go, I look back through the rear window and see armoured vehicles trundling down the hill. I can clearly see the faces of the soldiers on the back. They're smiling.<br />
<br />
'Well, that's ok,' I tell myself. 'If anything really terrible had happened they wouldn't be smiling, would they? People have just panicked at the sight of them...'<br />
<br />
The bus hurtles round the corner on two wheels and onto the esplanade, where we pull to a halt. There are more people around here and, to my surprise, I spot an elderly man I recognise as a patient in the hospital from when H had been there. Can it only be yesterday that she was discharged? This man is terribly ill and frail, still in his pyjamas. He tells me that he and all other patients who are not critically ill were discharged this morning. The information strikes ice into my heart. Why would they clear the wards of patients as vulnerable as this man if not to make way for worse casualties?<br />
<br />
We begin to talk to people and try to piece together the sequence of events. We're told that when the demo arrived with Maurice at Fort Rupert, the soldiers there laid down their weapons. A special troop of highly trained 'licensed to kill' soldiers - the Calivigny Squad - arrived and opened fire on the demonstrators. No one knows what's happened to Maurice. We're told that he seemed ill and weak. There's talk that he was badly treated in detention. We assume he has been rearrested. We hope he's uninjured.<br />
<br />
'What do we do now?' I ask M.</div><div><br />
We decide to take a look at the hospital, which we can access by the steps at the end of the esplanade. The same steps lead up to the fort, just below the hospital. But when we reach the steps, we freeze. They are crammed with people moving in both directions. Several are festooned with blood-soaked bandages, mostly around legs but at least one covering a wound in the abdomen.<br />
<br />
But - and here's the thing - there is almost silence. No weeping, no wailing, no cries of anguish. Does this always happen in situations such as this? Shock...denial...I guess. But of course, M and I are subject to the same blocking techniques. We stand for a moment and watch the people filing up and down the steps.<br />
'Um, I don't think I want to go up there after all,' I mumble.<br />
<br />
M agrees. Instead we walk through the tunnel and out onto the deserted Carenage. We head down an alleyway and M produces a spliff.<br />
<br />
So there we are, liming and getting high and trying to wrap our heads around what we have seen and what we might not have seen.<br />
'Just think, ' I say to M. 'Whatever has happened here is huge. The eyes of the world are going to be on Grenada and on this exact point where we are now. My family, J and all our friends back in London are going to be terrified, wondering what's happening and if we are safe. Yet here we are, sitting by the Carenage, getting high.<br />
<br />
It's the first but certainly not the last time that I give thanks for being here while this unfolds. No matter how hellish it may be - and whatever is to come - I would rather be here in the eye of the storm than elsewhere trying to visualise the scene.<br />
<br />
Town is rapidly emptying now, with people using any means possible to get out and into the country. All phone lines, telex and flights have been stopped. A fly couldn't get into or out of Grenada now.<br />
<br />
As M and I make our way slowly back to Tempe, we see heavy troop movements building up, armoured cars, tanks and personnel carriers trundling along the streets into and out of St Georges. Just a short time ago, these soldiers would be on the same side as the people against a possible mutual enemy. That's no longer the case.<br />
<br />
Back in Tempe, H and L are frantic with worry. I've been gone for hours and while I was away W had arrived. He had been at the epicentre for the whole thing, from the point Maurice had been freed from house arrest all the way to the fort. Even more crucial, he had recorded the proceedings on a handheld Walkman, intending to create a record for C when she returns from Carriacou.<br />
<br />
I listen to the tape with mounting dread. Taking his role as amateur journalist very seriously, W had interviewed participants. We can hear a Carnival-type atmosphere in the background at the fort, with people laughing and calling out to each other.<br />
'Why are you here?' W asks a schoolgirl.<br />
'We here to free we leader,' the girl replies, her voice filled with joy and passion. 'This is a great day for Grenada and for the revo.'<br />
<br />
On the tape, we hear the exact moment the vibe changes from triumphant party to mindbending horror. Shouts of anger and disbelief first of all. Followed by the rumbling of the armoured vehicles. Then there's the shooting. The screams of pain and anguish and fear. With the tape still running, we hear W's frantic footfalls as he tries to escape the panic, his breathing laboured and gasping as he leaps over a wall before the tape goes dead, the ghastly record ended.<br />
<br />
At 5.30pm, the news from Barbados reports that Maurice has been wounded and is under detention in the hospital. Four to ten people are claimed to have died, including two NJM Ministers. They claim that all the Ministers who had previously resigned are in detention - 'whereabouts unknown'.<br />
<br />
At 6.00pm Radio Antilles confirms that Maurice's whereabouts are uncertain. They report that shortly after 1.00am two heavy explosions and automatic gunfire came from Fort Rupert and thick black smoke was seen coming from the army headquarters. Then they claim that the USSR is behind all the problems! They also report that the whole island is without electric current or water. This isn't true and it throws doubt on all their other assertions.<br />
<br />
At 8.15pm, we discover that RFG is back on air, though we don't know what time they came back. They are broadcasting a taped programme about agriculture! Once again, this feeds into our capacity for denial that things can really be that bad and adds to the sense of unreality we have felt for so long now. We're told to expect an important broadcast at 9.30pm. Meanwhile, our assumption is that Maurice is alive and though this is a dread day for the Revo, it's just a hideous episode in its story. Certainly not the end.<br />
<br />
M pops out and when he returns he says he's heard more shots and saw people being searched on River Road.<br />
<br />
At 10.05pm, RFG broadcasts the statement by Hudson Austin on behalf of the armed forces. H and B are asleep in bed. L is lying in our bed and M is sleeping on the foam in a corner of the living room. I put a new tape into the radio, collect my diary and a pen and sit in the darkness to record his words:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Last night, the Central Committee made an offer to Maurice enabling him to remain as Prime Minister. He said he would consider the offer. But today, a crowd led by Unison Whiteman, stormed his home. The soldiers fired above the people's heads 'as instructed'. Maurice led the people to St Georges where they stormed Fort Rupert. Maurice and Unison disarmed the soldiers there and distributed arms to the crowd. Their stated intention was to wipe out the leadership of the party, the armed forces and the Central Committee. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">A detachment of soldiers was sent. Maurice and his supporters fired at them, killing two outright and wounding others. </span><br />
<br />
I sit in the darkness, scribbling down his words with a mounting sense of anger and disbelief. There were 3000 witnesses to what really happened. Who are they trying to fool with this fictional version of events?<br />
<br />
With his next words, my emotions jerk from rage to despair.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">In the ensuing battle, the following people were killed: Maurice Bishop, Jackie Creft, Unison Whiteman, Vince Noel, Norris and Fitzroy Bain ... among others.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">The country is now being ruled by a Revolutionary Military Council.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Martial law has been declared.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Anyone found disturbing the peace will be shot.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">There will be a 24 hour curfew for four days until Monday morning. </span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Anyone seen on the streets breaking curfew will be shot on sight.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">The only exceptions will be for those maintaining essential services.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">This situation will continue until further notice.</span><br />
<br />
The broadcast ends and I sit in the dark, numb and barely able to breathe, tears streaming down my cheeks.<br />
<br />
After a while, I close my diary and drag myself to my feet. I take the tape from the radio and stumble into the kitchen to check our supplies. I had stocked up earlier, but it's going to be hard to stretch the food for four days, during which there will be 6 mouths to feed - H, B, L, M, W and myself, with H on her very restricted diet.<br />
<br />
Then I wake M and tell him not to go into work tomorrow morning.<br />
'Curfew,' I tell him. 'Maurice is dead.'<br />
<br />
I go back into my bedroom. In the gloom, I can see L lying on the bed, his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.<br />
'Did you hear?' I whisper.<br />
'I heard,' he confirms.<br />
<br />
There are no other words. Sometimes words just aren't enough.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.grenadianconnection.com/blkheroes/topicsPics/MBishop2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.grenadianconnection.com/blkheroes/topicsPics/MBishop2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 198px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 110px;" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">Image of Maurice from <a href="http://www.grenadianconnection.com/blkheroes/blackHistory.asp?headline=6">Grenadian Connection</a></span></span><br />
<br />
</div></div>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-40654228205062654992023-01-05T08:38:00.002-08:002023-01-05T08:38:40.505-08:00Curfew<span style="font-weight: bold;">Thursday 20th - Sunday 23rd October</span><br />
<br />
<span><span style="font-style: italic;">From now on, these posts will include extracts from my diary (in italics). I've resisted the urge to </span><span style="font-style: italic;">edit these extracts as, confused though they are, they are a </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;">record of how I felt at that point in time, before I had a chance to process what had happened or fully comprehend it.<br />
</span><br />
All hope is dead. It died yesterday up at the fort with Maurice. The hopes and dreams of an entire people are in shreds.<br />
<br />
And yet the loss is even greater than that. This tiny beacon in the Caribbean whose brave light shone around the world, illuminating the dark places and bringing with it hopes of a better way, has been extinguished. Shock, rage - and horror that the Revo didn't succumb to its mighty enemies outside but imploded from within - mingle with utter despair.<br />
<br />
And then there's fear. What will the future bring?<br />
<br />
I can't stop thinking about Maurice and the others. What were their last thoughts as they were lined up against that wall, knowing they were about to be executed? True to form, Maurice's last recorded words were of despair for the people he loved.<div><br />
'The masses...They're firing on the masses...'<br />
<br />
And what about Jackie Creft? In the joyous procession en route to Fort Rupert after she and Maurice had been broken out from house arrest, her mother came out of the crowd to greet her.<br />
'Look what we've got ourselves into, Mum,' Jackie murmured as they embraced.<br />
<br />
As a woman, I can't help thinking. Were her last thoughts for those she would be leaving behind? Or with the one who would never know life at all now? Jackie Creft was five months pregnant with Maurice's child when she was murdered.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.oas.org/dsd/publications/Unit/oea51e/p076a.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.oas.org/dsd/publications/Unit/oea51e/p076a.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 189px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 305px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Photo of the courtyard at Fort Rupert from <a href="http://www.oas.org/dsd/publications/Unit/oea51e/ch08.htm">OAS</a></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span></span>M was first to get up this morning. With the blank denial so evident yesterday, he had blocked on me waking him last night to tell him about the curfew and instead heads off to work as usual. He's stopped by soldiers at the Tempe crossroads and turned back.<br />
<br />
We're relieved this seems to indicate the curfew may be more benign than we were led to fear from last night's chilling broadcast. On the other hand, in an odd kind of way, it adds to the uncertainty. Just what are the rules? If we don't know, how can we assess risk? Does it depend on which soldiers you encounter?<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br />
<br />
The first thing I do when I get up is switch on the radio and insert a blank tape. US airships are on their way to Grenada and a battleship is already at St Vincent and the Grenadines.<br />
<br />
Excerpt from my diary: <span style="font-style: italic;">Tempe is quiet. How else could it be? They've put a whole people, a whole nation, under house arrest. </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;">We can move between here and C's house. Where is she? How is she? My thoughts keep moving to mum and dad and the hell they must be going through. Perhaps worse than our own personal hell, we who sit here knowing we're living through history... </span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
<br />
H is in reasonable spirits. M listens to music and tries to wrap his head around it all. W is high on it all but very restless. B is freaked, speechless and feeling ill.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">L and I spent the night making love and holding each other...</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">I am unable to think of any future but horror. At best, we all live. At worst...</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
<br />
Oh sweet sweet Grenada. Strong struggling people - how can you stand against tanks? You thought you ruled this country - so when things you didn't understand started to happen you asked for explanations. When none were forthcoming, you obeyed the tradition of the Grenadian revolution and came onto the streets to make your demands known.<br />
<br />
You were arrested.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
<br />
Finally, after exhausting all other means, you freed Maurice yourselves and the soldiers laid down their arms in the face of the people. Guns for defending Grenada - how could they use them against the Grenadian people? When these **** **** **** realised they couldn't stop the people calling for Bishop they simply exterminated him and his comrades and imprisoned all the people. </span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Overwhelming sadness mingles with rage...</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
<br />
Rain. Rain in the skies and rain in the eyes of the people. H and I have an enormous responsibility to bear for the Grenadian people we know and love. The rest of the world has to know what's going on here...To be in England now would be close to unbearable. We have food. We have music. We have weed. We have each other.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">The rain is falling in sheets. It's 9.30 on the first day of imprisonment. Bob Marley is telling us we're the survivors on the stereo. I hope he's right. They killed Maurice. They killed Jackie Creft. But they can't kill the whole of the Grenadian people. </span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
<br />
W has been to the gap. There's massive troop movement at the road. He says people's feeling is to hope for a US invasion. Misguided but understandable. These fools have done the reverse of what they hoped for - you can't put the people in chains and then hope they'll support you. Why should the people believe anything these oppressors tell them now?</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
<br />
10.00am - international news only on Radio Free Grenada.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">We just listened again to the tape W made yesterday and then to Austin's broadcast. There's a lull now as everyone allows to sink into their consciousness the fact that we'll be here on our arses for at least the next four days. You can't stop thinking about it and working out practicalities. Might they come to get me and H out? Can we refuse? etc etc. <br />
<br />
But every so often I'm overwhelmed by righteous anger at this dread Babylon system. Why aren't the soldiers turning their guns on these oppressors? Aren't they Grenadian too? <br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-style: italic;">11.00am - W returns to tell us an army truck was going round to collect ex-soldiers to get them to go back into the army.<br />
<br />
The map of Grenada keeps falling off the wall.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />13th March 1979 was the day everything seemed possible. </span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
19th October 1983 was the day everything went irrevocably wrong.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />There's no going back now - but what a grisly and ironic slant it gives to the Forward Ever Backward Never slogan.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://stormcarib.com/reports/2004/jpg00606.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://stormcarib.com/reports/2004/jpg00606.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 221px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 223px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span><i>Photo from </i><a href="http://stormcarib.com/reports/2004/jpg00606.jpg" style="font-style: italic;">Stormcarib</a><br />
<i><br />
</i></span></span></div><i>Midday - RFG seems to be trying to catch up They broadcast a statement from the Ministry of Information saying that the international press are all telling lies. They're taking groups of journalists to Fort Rupert and the hospital. What do they think that will prove? They put full responsibility for the current suffering on Maurice and Unison Whiteman. The Revolutionary Military Council (RMC) of whom Austin is the chairman, issues dire warnings about non-interference. There are 16 members of the RMC (all drawn from the armed forces) and they have full legislative and executive powers. The PRG has been dissolved. Cabinet has been dismissed. Passes are being issued for workers in essential services. Then follows the first interview with a 'witness' who was at Fort Rupert, predictably laying all the blame on Maurice, saying he was arming counters.<br />
<br />
12.25pm - a soldier on a motorbike arrives at our house. W recognises him as one of the ones he'd seen earlier, rounding up ex-soldiers. He tells us he's looking for Little W!!! My god, he's 13 years old - any gun would be the same size as he is! They must be picking up militia members too. The soldier leaves. We can hear booming in the distance.<br />
<br />
12.30pm - news from Trinidad says no Grenadians will be allowed into Trinidad without a visa. At 1pm there's a broadcast by Chambers, PM of Trinidad. We're told it's important, but for some reason it's inaudible.<br />
<br />
B is now in a filthy mood, stomping round getting vexed with all and sundry, wishing he was at home at his own yard so he wouldn't have to talk to anyone.<br />
<br />
Six people, two of them ill, all of them freaked out, in one small house for at least four days. And this is a country where you are rarely at home, apart from to sleep and eat. All life takes place outside. But not now. Not now.<br />
<br />
2.00pm - Chambers is calling for a Caricom summit.<br />
<br />
2.30pm - RFG issues a coded call: 'All Ms CMs and As are asked to call 3117.' This is followed by more interviews with people who were supposedly at the fort yesterday. Unsurprisingly, they all confirm the official line, laying full blame for events on Maurice. Don't they see? Can they really be so out of touch? The more they lay claim to the 'truth' when almost everyone knows the REAL truth, the more their already-rockbottom credibility crumbles.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><b>(NOTE: It later transpired that they really were that out of touch. Coard's analysis was apparently that the people would shout and demonstrate for a few days after cooling their heels in curfew but then knuckle down.)</b></span><br />
<br />
3.00pm - RFG tells us about Michael Alse (?), chair of the People's Popular Movement of Trinidad, who had arrived in Grenada on 17th October as a mediator between the two factions. The upshot was supposedly that Maurice would be allowed to remain as Prime Minister on the condition that he took full responsibility for the crisis.<br />
<br />
Tempe news is that they tracked down Little W and took him away. Crying.</i><br />
<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">
So how do we spend that first day of curfew? My diary gives minute by minute accounts, so obviously I spend much of the time making notes and recording the news. We cook. We eat. We listen to music. We smoke. We try to be kind to each other.<br />
<br />
There's no doubt that out of us all, W is the one who has had the most traumatic experience. To add to the pressure, we hear that there are moves being made to round up witnesses to what happened at the fort. If these witnesses' versions don't coincide with the official one, will they be silenced? And what might that mean? Detention? Or worse?<br />
<br />
Because if one thing is now clear it's that anything - including cold-blooded murder - is possible.<br />
<br />
Hyper and close to the edge, W keeps replaying the tape he made over and over. At some point, H snaps. She can't handle hearing it any more. In response, W wipes the tape! I'm horrified! Even at that point I can see that it was probably the only incontrovertible evidence of what really happened up at the fort, apart from witness testimonies. And it's already clear how unreliable they can be.<br />
<br />
With little to distract us, every tiny thing seems weighty with symbolism. As the map of Grenada falls off the wall for the umpteenth time, I try yet again to fix it back up. It's crucial. Grenada can't fall. But she already has ...<br />
<br />
On one of W's forays to check out the scene, he tells us that one of the local shops is open at the back and people are sneaking out to buy stuff. We're low on staples - rice, flour, yam etc - and won't be able to stretch our supplies for the full four days. I check and find I have 20$ EC (about £5). A brief group discussion results in a decision: W and I are delegated to break curfew tomorrow and attempt to get to the shop and stock up.<br />
<br /><br /></div></div></div>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-274707058267881822023-01-05T08:38:00.001-08:002023-01-05T08:38:29.482-08:00Breaking Curfew<span style="font-weight: bold;">Friday 21st October</span><br />
<br />
L and I are asleep in bed. I'm woken by a hand shaking my shoulder. I open bleary eyes and focus on a large spliff held inches from my nose by a smiling M. Early though it is, I don't have to think for long. There have to be worse ways to start this, our second day of imprisonment.<br />
<br />
A little later, I roll out of bed feeling mellow. As I pull on my clothes, W calls to me. We have to go to the shop.<br />
<br />
'What now?' I protest. 'I can't! I'm too high! Can't we wait an hour or so?'<br />
<br />
W shakes his head in disbelief. If we know about the shop being open, others will also know, he says. Local shops don't carry much stock. They will soon run out. I can see he's making sense and feel a heavy weight of responsibility. There's no choice. With our limited supplies rapidly shrinking, we have to go and we have to go now.<br />
<br />
I reach for the large grey shoulder bag we use for shopping and lift it from the hook on my bedroom wall. As it drops, I'm aware of a weight at the bottom.<br />
<br />
I know what this is. Back in London, H and I had bought a large hunting knife in a leather sheath for cutting bush and so on. In the days before the coup, when I was going in and out of town twice a day to visit H in hospital, several people had told me I should carry it. I'd been reluctant at the time; I couldn't visualise a situation in which it could possibly help me and doubted I'd ever be able to use it. But eventually, as always, I bowed to local wisdom and put it in the bag.<br />
<br />On this morning on the second day of a shoot-to-kill curfew, there's a part of my fuddled brain that registers the knife is still in the bag. Another part of my brain attempts to grapple with the question of whether or not I should carry it today. But the largest part of my brain shuts down. It's too hard. I can't decide. With W calling again that I should hurry, I block on the knife's presence, grab the bag and the money and follow W through the door into the unknown outside world.<br />
<br />
The shop is just at the end of our gap. Although it's on the road, which must carry some degree of risk, it's less than 100 yards from our home. If all goes smoothly, we should be back in a few minutes. It's not such a big deal.<br />
<br />
It is though. W was right. We reach the end of our gap and are greeted by a couple of guys hanging out by the school. We can see inside the shop - the shelves are bare. Nothing left at all. The guys tell us that P's shop still has supplies.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_qFRIvUqsf-4/R0sATwvKxZI/AAAAAAAAB0U/km_WzMVBbfE/CIMG0148.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_qFRIvUqsf-4/R0sATwvKxZI/AAAAAAAAB0U/km_WzMVBbfE/CIMG0148.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 175px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 233px;" /></a>P's shop. That's a different matter all together. P's shop is further down the road, right on the crossroads where we know there's been a roadblock. It's a strategic crossroads. Will the soldiers still be there?<br />
<br />
W and I glance at each other, but we both know that in reality there's no choice. We can't go home empty-handed. We set off, keeping to the edge of the deserted road. As we walk, we hear a vehicle behind us and before it comes into view, we duck down behind a hedge and wait until the army truck passes.<br />
<br />
This is all so unreal (and I'm so high) that I'm convinced I'm acting in a movie and have to stifle an urge to giggle as I imagine myself wearing a belted raincoat and black beret. I'm in the French Resistance.<br />
<br />
When the truck has disappeared, we move back onto the edge of the road. As we come into view of the crossroads, our worst fears are realised. A group of heavily-armed soldiers is occupying the middle of the square. There's no way we can get to P's shop without them seeing us. This is now all too real.<br />
<br />
'Right,' I say to W. 'From this point on, there's no ducking and diving. We need to walk in the middle of the road so they can clearly see us. Walk slowly and keep our hands visible.'<br />
<br />
We're working well together, W and I. Almost immediately, the soldiers spot us.<br />
<br />
'You should never feel so pleased about being with a white woman,' I mutter to W.<br />
<br />
He knows what I mean. We don't believe they'll really shoot us on sight, in spite of Hudson Austin's warning on the radio, but the likelihood of them shooting an obvious foreigner is even more remote, given the mounting international pressure and the threat of an imminent invasion. Even so, it's impossible to predict what might happen and I'm aware my words are a puny attempt at bravado. We keep on walking at a steady pace, ensuring we make no sudden moves.<br />
<br />
What I want is for the soldiers to come forward and confront us, but I see one of them flick a wrist. The soldiers scatter and take up positions behind walls at each approach to the crossroads.<br />
<br />
Once again, we have no choice but to keep on walking towards them. When we get to the end of the road, we can see the front of P's shop. The shutters are down and there's no indication it has ever been open. We stop in the middle of the square, unsure of our next move. As I glance round, I can see the barrels of guns pointing in our direction.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://holydogwater.files.wordpress.com/2007/09/ak-47gator.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://holydogwater.files.wordpress.com/2007/09/ak-47gator.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 126px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 316px;" /></a>The soldier who had given the order to scatter steps forward from behind his wall and the others come forward to join him, surrounding us. There are five of them, all armed with automatic rifles. Once again, I'm swamped by a feeling of unreality. I've seen this movie, I tell myself, but I'm not sure what happens next.<br />
<br />
'Where are you going?' the leader demands.<br />
<br />
Without having discussed it, W and I both know it makes sense for me to do the talking. I explain that we're low on food and that we'd heard the shop was open. The soldier's eyes flicker to the shuttered shopfront and back to us.<br />
<br />
'You need a pass for that,' he tells us.<br />
<br />
Pass? I know nothing about any pass, I say. My sluggish brain struggles to come up with something - anything - that might shift the impasse. Through the fog, I remember hearing something on the radio earlier as I got ready to leave. Something about curfew being lifted to allow people to stock up on supplies. I recall saying to W that we could wait 'til then and him replying that it would be too late and the shops would have run out. I grasp at the straw.<br />
<br />
'The radio said the curfew would be lifted today,' I bluster.<br />
<br />
The soldier raises his eyebrows.<br />
<br />
'Yes, yes,' I continue, struggling to remember the details. 'Between ten and two, they said.'<br />
<br />
There's an extended pause. It's as though the air is thick as treacle and everything's moving in slow motion. The soldier raises his arm and looks at his watch. I have to stop myself groaning aloud. I have no idea what time it is, but it's clear it's early morning still - nowhere near ten.<br />
<br />
He probably thinks I'm an idiot. And he wouldn't be wrong. Maybe this is what persuades him we're no threat. He's about to let us go. Though he's still hesitant, I can see it in his expression. I attempt a smile.<br />
<br />
It's at this point that we hear a jeep roaring down the hill. It screeches to a halt behind us. There are two PRA officers on board. The passenger leans out and points to the bag on my shoulder.<br />
<br />
'I want that bag searched physically!' he growls.<br />
<br />
My bowels turn to water. Only now do I allow the consious part of my brain to register the knife, nestling at the bottom of the otherwise empty bag.<br />
<br />
The soldier who has been questioning us reaches out his hand. With bone-breaking reluctance I hold out the bag. If things had been moving sluggishly before, time now slows to a bare minimum.<br />
<br />
I lock my eyes on his. Keep looking in his eyes. He's a man. He's just a man, let him see your humanity. Engage with his. It has to be harder to kill someone you've connected with.<br />
<br />
It's working. His eyes remain glued to mine as he lowers his hand into the bag.<br />
<br />
I see the moment his fingers encounter the knife. I see the shock and the regret register in those eyes I've locked onto. Slowly, so very slowly, he draws up his hand. He tears his gaze from mine and looks down, then back up at me. I can see his indecision. For a moment I wonder - he looks almost like he wants to cry and though this terrifies me even more (what does he know that I don't?) in spite of everything, I feel guilty for putting him in this position. What will he do?<br />
<br />
But he's a soldier and just as we've had no choice up to now, neither does he.<br />
<br />
'There's a knife in the bag,' he whispers.<br />
<br />
Instantly, the soldiers surrounding us are on full alert. Weapons carried casually until now are readied, levelled and pointed at us, inches away from our torsos. Beside me, I feel a wave of shock emanating from W. He didn't know about the knife.<br />
<br />
What have I done? I've put myself at risk but, even worse, I've put W at risk and maybe the others at home too. I still can't imagine them just shooting us on the spot. (What imagination could ever visalise such a scenario?) But I'm convinced they'll take us in for questioning. And then...what? If they interrogate me, what line do I take? Pro-Maurice, which could lead to god knows what consequences? Or do I lie and say I support the coup? Or stay silent for fear of incriminating myself?<br />
<br />
I turn to watch as the officer in the jeep gestures for the bag and examines the leather sheath. In the same unbearable slow motion, he flicks the catch and draws out the blade whose savage appearance H and I had laughed over when we first bought it, millenia ago back in London.<br />
<br />
'Why do you have this knife?' he demands.<br />
<br />
I start to gibber, the words flooding out over numb lips. I explain that I'd been carrying the knife before but forgot it was there.<br />
<br />
'It's stupid,' I plead. 'What could I do with a knife? What could I possibly hope to achieve?'<br />
<br />
I tell him about being low on food supplies. That there are six of us. Two of our friends are ill...I show him the money - like that proves anything...<br />
<br />
Finally, I run out of words and turn back to the soldiers surrounding us. Once again, I look directly into each of their eyes, never allowing my gaze to drop to the barrels of the guns only inches from my abdomen. Guns can't hurt you. It's the men carrying the guns that you have to focus on.<br />
<br />
Who can say how long we stand there? Time is almost at a standstill now. After a lifetime, I hear the jeep roar off. The soldier with the bag returns and hands it to me.<br />
<br />
'He held the knife,' he says, and it sounds like an apology.<br />
<br />
'That's cool,' I stutter. 'He can keep the knife.'<br />
<br />
'You can go to the shop now,' he tells us, indicating with his chin.<br />
<br />
Only now do we turn and see that P's shop is open at the back. I don't remember if we thanked them or not. I do remember the walk to the shop on shaking legs, about twenty yards away, felt like one of the longest distances I'd ever crossed. Dry-mouthed and nauseous, W and I cross the stretch in silence.<br />
<br />
Once inside the dim interior of P's shop, we see a handful of other people are there and supplies are indeed running out fast. We stand in the cool shadows and look at each other for the first time. I wonder if I look as terrified as he does.<br />
<br />
'I nearly shat myself,' W says with disarming honesty.<br />
<br />
It's only then that the full impact of my stupidity hits home. Freaked and paranoid at the rumours that witnesses at the fort were being rounded up - and aware that it might be known that he'd taped what happened (so different from the version being recounted on the radio by so-called witnesses) W had misheard the officer in the jeep.<br />
<br />
Instead of 'I want that bag searched physically,' he'd heard 'I want that man personally.' His relief when the soldier took my bag instead was short-lived when the knife emerged.<br />
<br />
Somehow we go through the motions and buy flour, rice, potatoes - bulky belly-filling staples - and stagger back to the yard. The others have been frantic with worry at the length of time we've been gone, imagining all kinds of horrific scenarios. The reality wasn't that far short.<br />
<br />
Once we're back home though, we can breathe again and reflect. With the seesaw of emotions that dominate all of that time, we're now euphoric. We broke curfew and came back with food, hunter-gatherer style. We've fulfilled a basic human need. And survived to tell the tale. I can't imagine ever being that scared or in that much danger ever again.<br />
<br />
I didn't know then what was still in store for Grenada.<br />
<br /><br />Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-893566616668674822023-01-05T08:38:00.000-08:002023-01-05T08:38:10.373-08:00Curfew Continues<span style="font-weight: bold;">21st October</span><br />
<br />
The euphoria that follows surviving the breaking of curfew is short lived when we hear the news that a total blockade of Grenada means we should expect chronic shortages. But at least our own shelves have been restocked for the time.<br />
<br /><i>
1.00 pm - Radio Free Grenada broadcasts a statement by the Revolutionary Military Council saying <span>there is</span> <span>absolute peace and calm in the country, that all foreign citizens (including Americans) are safe and</span></i><span style="font-style: italic;"> unharmed and that diplomats have been issued with passes to check on their nationals.<br />
<br />
Consequently, they assure listeners, <span style="font-weight: bold;">there is no excuse for an invasion.</span></span><br />
<br />
The BBC World Service has a report of Maurice being led into the fort with his hands above his head. It seems that in spite of the best attempts of the RMC to cover up the reality of what happened on the 19th, the truth is leaking out.<br />
<br />
The news about diplomats visiting nationals is meaningless for us: we never bothered to register our presence with any UK authorities on the island, so they're not going to come looking for us.<br />
<br />
This lack of visibility is a two-edged sword. On the one hand, slipping under the official radar feels comforting...on the other...<br />
<br />
I had been right about one thing though. Curfew is indeed lifted briefly in order to allow people to restock their provisions. Since we've already handled that angle, L and I go for a walk up to Mt Parnassus instead. We visit FB, a friend of L's who I've never met before. He's a really laid back guy with a fixed smile who spends the time we're there lovingly fondling his new stereo equipment. We all get really high and FB makes us some superb soursop juice, which seems to take hours to create.<br />
<br />On one level, it feels like a normal social call. L and I try to relax, but we're jittery and constantly ask the time, scared that we might get distracted into staying too long and breaking curfew accidentally.<br />
<br />
On our way home, we pick guava, cici bush, Santa Maria and blackstage. As we walk along the road, an army jeep draws up beside us and the driver asks us a few terse questions before driving off.<br />
<br />
We arrive home without further incident and it's the strangest sensation. We've twitched and sweated against the restrictions of curfew for two days, yet while we were out for the brief official break, we were jumpy and anxious to get back to the relative safety of our yard. Then, as soon as we're back, we fret, wanting to go out again. Especially as the pressure we're all under, freaked and forced into such close company with one another, means that tensions in the house simmer below the surface at all times, breaking out into frequent arguments that I have to try to mediate.<br />
<br />
And all this is against a backdrop of radio broadcasts that fill us with rage and despair.<br />
<br /><i>
1.50pm - another RMC statement on RFG. They seem to be scurrying round now, desperate to justify their version of events, yet presumably so remote from what most people are thinking and feeling that they don't realise that with every word, they increase the distance between them and just about everyone else listening.<br />
<br />
They reiterate their claim that the army made every effort to avoid bloodshed on the 19th.<br /></i>
<br /><i>
Maurice, they say, ordered people to </i><span style="font-style: italic;">raid the canteen. </span>(!) <span style="font-style: italic;">Soldiers were abused and threatened and women were stripped, beaten and humiliated. Secret documents with plans for the defence of the country were destroyed and read by civilians. Maurice organised the armoury to be broken into and distributed weapons. He intended to kill all the officers at the fort. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">As a result of allowing civilians into a military installation, four soldiers and many civilians died. 'Many persons have lost their lives.' The responsibility for this loss of life is entirely Maurice Bishop's. The army had wished to take the leadership alive but were unable to do so when they were fired on. The version of events depicted on other radio stations is all lies.</span><br />
<br />
It's mindbending. We just can't wrap our heads round the implication that they presumably think they will be able to force people to accept this fictional version of what everyone knows to have been a massacre.<br />
<br />
<span><b>'Many persons have lost their lives.'</b></span><br />
<br />
We're haunted by this sentence. The brief lifting of curfew has allowed more details to spread about the moment the army arrived at the fort, firing as they came up the hill. The initial disbelief turning to panic. The terror. The horror.<br />
<br />
Don't forget - the demonstration that had freed Maurice from house arrest had been led by school children, who made up a large part of the numbers at the fort. We hear that in their desperate attempt to escape the carnage, many people leapt over the walls to certain death on the rocks forty feet below.<br />
<br /><b>(NOTE: Apparently, some tourists had been on the beach at the time and filmed the terrible sight described above. I'm told this was shown on UK TV, though I have never seen it.)</b><br />
<br />
With so much life-shattering information to assimilate, we all get together in the house for a group discussion about how to live together during the remaining days of curfew. We need to try to get our priorities right, to establish some kind of rules of our own, in the absence of all normal parameters. The result is a tentative and fragile agreement for increased sensitivity to each other's needs wherever possible.<br />
<br /><i>
7.30pm RFG - </i><span style="font-style: italic;">a new cabinet will be announced in the next few days, according to Hudson Austin. Officials have already been appointed at the Ministries. Austin has met with the Vice Chancellor of the American Medical School at Grand Anse to assure him of the safety of the students.<br />
<br />
Lt Col Liam James (joint chair of the RMC) warns of a possible invasion in the next few days. Sanctions have been announced by Jamaica, Trinidad and St Lucia.<br />
<br />
RFG announces that seventeen people were killed at the fort - three members of the People's Revolutionary Army, five civilians and nine leaders. Two civilians were killed in cross fire, and three by jumping over the wall. The leaders had been in the operations room, where most of the firing came from. Tribute is paid to the soldiers who died in the course of their duty.</span><br />
<br /><b>
(NOTE: These figures have always been disputed. At no time have there been any credible official figures given for the number of people who died that day.)</b><br />
<br />
There seems to be a subtle shift in RFG's broadcasts. Though they're still focusing on laying the blame on Maurice, the attention is turning from what happened on the 19th to what could happen in the next few days. By attempting to reassure the outside world that the situation is under control and it's business as usual, they're clearly trying to head off what looks to be inevitable now. Some kind of military intervention.<br />
<br />
There's a full moon that night and it shines through the louvre windows onto our bed.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.visailing.com/newsletter/charter-chatter/issue-1/caribbean-sailing-images/caribbean-sailing-full-moon-sailing.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Saturday 22nd October</span><br />
<br />
I wake at 5.45 to a spliff. Was it only yesterday that I did the same and then broke curfew with a knife in my bag? I can smell rain in the air. The rumbling of distant thunder seems like I imagine gunfire would sound. I imagine I'll soon know if that's accurate or not.<br />
<br />
7.00am - <i>radio 610.</i> <span style="font-style: italic;"> The Organisation of East Caribbean States (OECS) is considering a military invasion. US warships are on their way. A task force of 2000 marines has been diverted from the Mediterranean to evacuate US citizens if necessary</span>.<br />
<br /><i>
9.00am - radio 610.</i> <span style="font-style: italic;">Two officials from the US embassy in Barbados are coming to Grenada to check on American citizens here.</span><br />
<br /><i>
12 noon - radio 610. <span>Rising tension</span> <span>reported.</span></i><br />
<br /><i>
12 noon - RFG. </i><span style="font-style: italic;">Major Chris Stroud of the RMC met with the 250 US medical students to reassure them of their safety. The situation is firmly under control. The Ministry of Information denies reports of disorder during the lifting of curfew. </span><br />
<br />
It's safe to say that no one believes anything we're told on the radio now. Instead, the rumour mill has gone into over drive and the information from that source feels more trustworthy, even when it stretches credibility.<br />
<br />
We hear that the supermarket on the Carenage was looted by soldiers and also that food has been taken by force from local shops and not paid for.<br />
<br />
We hear that P, from Back Street, has gone crazy with the pressure and has been taken to hospital.<br />
<br />
We hear that the Calivigny Squad, who made up the troops who carried out the massacre at the fort, numbers 500 soldiers, that they wear black berets and drink cats' blood to make them strong and fearless.<br />
<br />
We hear that a Tempe man has a pass for the hospital and he says that it's so packed that people are lying in the corridors without beds.<br />
<br />
We hear that there are 800 people in the regular PRA - but wonder how many of them will take orders from the new regime.<br />
<br />
We hear there has been a mass roundup of ex PRA and militia. (There are mixed reports about what's happened to Little W, the 13 year old who we knew the soldiers were looking for, and we're really anxious about him.)<br />
<br />
We hear there is no longer a military presence at the crossroads. But this fails to reassure us and if anything makes us even more nervy. Presumably all efforts are now going into repelling an invasion rather than subduing the populace.<br />
<br />
Then in the late afternoon, Little W himself comes round to tell his own tale.<div><br /><b>
(NOTE: In spite of the curfew, people are able to cautiously move around the immediate area with relative ease.)</b><br />
<br />
Little W tells us in a shaky voice that he had indeed been picked up and taken in for military service. After a couple of days, they must have sussed he wasn't going to be much help and brought him home. L and P tease him for crying and he denies it. I get angry and say anyone would bawl under the circumstances and he throws me a grateful glance. I can see that L and P are just trying to cover up their own fear by laughing at someone they perceive as weaker.<br />
<br /><i>
6.00pm. Oh, the RMC are really working hard now to show they have control. The first policy statement is issued by Chris Stroud and broadcasted on Radio Antilles. </i><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
<br />
Grenada will pursue an independent, non-aligned foreign policy and continue to have a mixed economy. The RMC calls for peace. The new cabinet will be announced in two weeks. They will focus on economic construction - promoting agriculture and tourism and continuing with the building of the international airport at Pt Salines, in the south west of the island. They hope to continue good relations with other countries. Representatives from the Canadian and UK High Commissions in Barbados have been invited to Grenada. They confirm that they have detained Radix, Louison, Burke and the Trinidadian journalist, Alastair Hughes but give no further details.</span><br />
<br /><i>
7.30pm - RFG. </i><span style="font-style: italic;">The RMC will not permit harassment or intimidation of any group in Grenada. All social classes and interests must be represented. The first priority is to solve unemployment and ensure there is firm control over employing and dismissing workers. Local and international private investment will be encouraged. Hudson Austin is due to meet the PM of St Vincents tomorrow. Liam James says all Grenadians should be on alert against invasion.</span><br />
<br />
Our brains feel twisted and shredded. Like everyone else, we're still freaked and traumatised by the coup ...the grief and the loss...the shock of the switch from the belief that you could trust everyone and that everyone was on the same side to the paranoia and distrust that there are no longer any certainties...the rage at the lies that seek to rewrite history...the enforced imprisonment of curfew...the surreal assertion that it's somehow going to be business as usual and there is still life for the revo without Maurice and after the coup...and now the near certainty of an invasion.<br />
<br />
That night, the vast moon shines again through our louvre windows and L and I wonder why we can hear gunfire from Richmond Hill as we bask in its light.<br />
<br />
Excerpt from my diary: <span style="font-style: italic;">Curfew is strange - it somehow makes you feel secure. You're at home. You have food. It's very unlikely anything will harm you. Yesterday when we went out, both L and I felt jumpy and kept asking the time and felt relieved when we got home though of course we then immediately wanted to go out. Days last weeks and yet time passes very quickly. Monday could hold anything...</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Sunday 23rd October</span><br />
<br />
Weird and surreal broadcasts on RFG. They're switching from talking about economics and trade - as though nothing had happened - then repeating the broadcasts from yesterday - then creating the impression that tomorrow will be a 'back to normal' day. <span style="font-style: italic;">Foreigners will be free to leave if they wish. Flights are hoped to resume as normal. Workplaces will open at 8.00am. Curfew will continue from 8.00pm to 5.00am until further notice. Schools, however, will remain closed for the time being.</span><br />
<br />
It's only the part about schools that confirms they know their hold on people's hearts and minds is still far from certain. Then, mid afternoon, the tone abruptly changes.<br />
<br /><i>
3.55pm RFG.</i> <span style="font-style: italic;">All militia should report to their units immediately.</span><br />
<i><br />
4.55pm RFG. </i><span style="font-style: italic;">All immigration and airport officials are given a phone no to call urgently.</span><br />
<br /><i>
5.00pm RFG. </i><span style="font-style: italic;">The RMC issues a heavy plea for unity against an impending invasion. The news is followed by revolutionary songs:</span> '<span style="font-style: italic;">Let them come, let them come, we will bury them in the sea.'</span><br />
<br />
It's enough to make your head explode. If there had been an invasion a few weeks ago, people really would have come out to barricade the roads and lay down their lives for the revo. But now? Who would they be fighting for? The same people who had massacred, imprisoned and lied to them over the last four days? On the other hand, all lives will be at risk if there's an invasion...<br />
<br /><i>
6.00pm RFG.</i> <span style="font-style: italic;">The OECS plus Barbados and Jamaica took the decision to invade Grenada today. Armed forces are en route to Barbados where they will be joined by units from Jamaica and Antigua. An unidentified warship is already seven and a half miles from the coast, well inside Grenada's territorial waters. The invasion has been opposed by Guyana, Trinidad, the Bahamas and Belize. The RMC are prepared to hold conciliatory talks with any country.</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br />
<br />
An invasion is expected tonight and will result in the deaths of thousands of our men, women and children. </span><br />
<br /><i>
6.15pm RFG.</i> <span style="font-style: italic;">Thousands of militia members are reporting to their units.</span><br />
<i><br />
6.30pm RFG. </i><span style="font-style: italic;"> Questions raised about the legality of the OECS decision to invade as it wasn't unanimous.</span><br />
<br /><i>
7.00pm radio 610.</i> <span style="font-style: italic;">News from the Caricom meeting: Grenada has been suspended from Caricom. OECS proposes trade and economic sanctions and the cessation of all air and communication links. It has been agreed to <span style="font-weight: bold;">involve external elements</span> with the primary purpose of 'restoring normalcy' in Grenada. The Governor General may be used as a contact.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">The UK is sending a destroyer to evacuate its citizens.</span></span><br />
<br />
That's the end of the entries in my diary on this, the last day of curfew. When I look back now and try to remember how I felt at that point, the impression I have is one of holding my breath for a very long time. As I said before, the days of curfew had begun to feel relatively safe and secure.<br />
<br />
There could be no such certainty after tonight. It's too much to wrap your head round, so it's as if life is suspended until we see what the next day will bring for us to react to.<br />
<br /><br /></div>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-31170518667170145592023-01-05T08:37:00.003-08:002023-01-05T08:37:51.347-08:00'Back to normal' Day<span style="font-weight: bold;">Monday 24th October</span><br />
<br />
6.00 am Radio Free Grenada. There's a broadcast from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs saying there are now two ships in Grenada's territorial waters but no invasion as yet. I can hear more than a hint of panic in their urgent pacifying claims that foreigners can come and go as they please and the Revolutionary Military Council has no desire to rule Grenada. Just words.<br />
<br />
Today's the day when life is supposed to return to normal. Shops, offices and all other workplaces will be open and everything apart from schools should operate as usual.<br />
<br />
As though the revo hadn't imploded five days ago. As though the people's chosen leaders weren't all dead. As though those same people hadn't been slaughtered, terrorised, lied to and imprisoned throughout the last week.<br />
<br />
What might today hold in store? With no opportunity for organising during the curfew, will there be a spontaneous uprising? If so, how will it be dealt with? Will the PRA turn their guns on their own people? Or will elements within the army, loyal to the true revo, rise up against their masters? Either way, it's impossible to imagine a scenario that doesn't consist of Grenadian killing Grenadian.<br />
<br />
Unless the Americans invade. And if they do, will people resist? Or will they welcome the invaders as a preferable alternative to a bloody civil war?<br />
<br />
And how will the bombs discriminate between those who resist and those who accept?<br />
<br />
It's impossible to know what to hope for. All we can do is live it.<br />
<br />
One thing's for sure. Whatever the day holds we have to get out of the yard where we've been confined for the last four days. As a first foray into the outside world, L and I go to Blue Danube, the little shop on the hill leading to town. Here at least, it seems the spirit of the revo lives on. Though supplies are dwindling fast, the shop owner is actually lowering prices - not cashing in on people's desperation as might happen elsewhere. When L and I don't have enough money to buy everything we need, the owner allows us to leave with the shopping and owe him the balance.<br />
<br />
Even though he can't know if we'll be alive to pay it. And we can't know if he'll be alive to receive it. <br />
<br />
I've always believed you should try to live in the moment, but never has there been so little choice about it.<br />
<br />
PC comes round soon after L and I arrive home. He tells us that when Maurice was freed from house arrest he appeared weak and confused, wearing only underpants and unable to walk without assistance - let alone carry a gun. Had he been drugged?<br />
<br />
The news from radio 610 is that Amnesty International have sent a cable to Hudson Austin asking for a public inquiry into the deaths of Maurice and the others and the arrests of Radix and Alistair Hughes.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
<br />
</span></span></div>H and I go together into town as she's feeling strong enough now. There are long queues for kerosene, calor gas and food. Panic buying means that the shops are emptying really fast. A crowd gathers outside Lacqua Funeral Home as two body bags are brought in. The bank is packed but we manage to draw some cash.<br />
<br />
Not without trepidation, we head up to the hospital as we need to get a blood test form for H. There's an eerie sense of calm, as there was on the day of the coup. It's hard to believe that less than a week ago a slaughter took place a few yards up the hill at the fort. We're told that five women have been admitted with bullet wounds but the men's ward is full. We're not allowed into the wards to see for ourselves, but are told that last night the private block was emptied out and all the staff were sent back to the nurses' home - presumably for them to get as much rest as possible. With no one to answer their calls, patients lay in their beds all night and bawled for help that wouldn't come.<br />
<br />
Tearing ourselves away, we next head for Cable and Wireless to call home. At least the phone lines are operating. Mum sounds freaked, though relieved to hear my voice. But she is furious when I tell her I have no intention to leave. I know how hard it must be for her but beg her to understand that I can't just wave my passport and run away.<br />
<br />
Returning to Tempe, we meet PC again. He tells us he's found out his daughter's foot was mashed at the fort. We give him $20 EC to buy milk and medicine.<br />
<br />
L has been into the country to St David's to check on his aunts. He returns with bags of fresh produce which are most welcome but the bad news is that he got into a huge row with a guy over coral and money. Everyone is so stressed and tempers are frayed. It's inevitable that tensions boil over and it feels like the potential for violence of one kind or another is just a breath away.<br />
<br />
But with time having shrunk to the immediate here and now and still no idea what might happen next, we can't afford to keep still and feel the need to get as much done as we possibly can, while we can. L and I return to town with the empty gas cylinder but no one seems to think we'll be able to get gas. We're obsessing about the cylinder - it has assumed vital importance, since almost everything else seems to be out of our control. We meet P and leave the cylinder with him before returning to Tempe again.<br />
<br />
Everywhere we go - locally, in town, on the buses - people are ranting against the RMC and don't seem to care who hears them. The mood is one of anger rather than fear. There appears to be almost total unity - pro Maurice and anti RMC.<br />
<br />
There isn't a particularly large military presence on the streets and it really does feel bizarrely like life is carrying on pretty much as usual. Even up at the hospital and the fort (which is on the same hill) there's no obvious sense of the trauma of the last week or fear of what is to come. It's surreal and I have no way of knowing if this is how people always react when they're in deep shock. Maybe it's just the urge to survive.<br />
<br />
Along the esplanade there are a couple of slightly antiquated looking guns pointing out to sea, each surrounded by four or five sandbags. They look like props from an old movie and when you think what they are supposed to be defending us against, they add to the surreal feeling that this can't be real.<br />
<br />
When we reach back home, C is there. Poor C had gone to Carriacou, Grenada's tiny sister island, on the morning of the coup and so spent the whole curfew there on her own.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.grenada-beaches.com/images/carriacou-welcome.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.grenada-beaches.com/images/carriacou-welcome.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 166px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 159px;" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">Image from grenada-beaches.com<br />
<br />
</span></span></div>When she had arrived on the 19th, she was greeted by a demonstration by local schoolchildren carrying placards: <span style="font-style: italic;">No Bishop. No School</span> and several others specifically anti-Coard. Later there was another demonstration by older youths, <span style="font-style: italic;">No Bishop. No Work</span>.<br />
<br />
There was joyous dancing in the streets when the news filtered through that Maurice had been released and a motorcade drove through town, horns blaring and people cheering. Then RFG went off the air. Reports from regional stations were confused but it was clear that there had been extreme violence. C says the mood became very subdued, with people clustered round radios in the streets, waiting to hear what had happened a short distance away across the water.<br />
<br />
Then, when the terrible confirmation of the coup was announced that evening, C says there was utter silence. Over the next four days the curfew didn't really operate in Carriacou, where there were only five soldiers on the whole island, and apparently not a single volunteer responded to the call for people to join the militia.<br />
<br />
I can't imagine how terrible it must have been for C during those dread-filled days, totally isolated, knowing no one at all in Carriacou and alone with her grief and fear. However bad your own suffering, you can always find people who have it worse.<br />
<br />
6.00 pm RFG - apparently Guyana opposed Grenada's suspension from the OECS, which means the decision is not binding. The broadcast also says that a contingent of soldiers left Jamaica on Saturday night - which was before the decision to invade was allegedly made.<br />
<br />
And once again, this all feels surreal. They're not focusing on the same things as their listeners. It's clear their agenda has switched to a defensive stance projected outwards to try to avoid invasion, whereas everyone else knows there's unfinished business right here on the island.<br />
<br />
P returns from town with the empty cylinder - there's no gas to be had anywhere. With only a partial cylinder left between us and C, we're going to have to be careful to eke it out by cooking communally and with care. W also arrives and now we're all together again. He told me a couple of days ago about a Tempe man who had an illegal gun. Today W saw this man in town - in uniform. He had been given a choice: to go to prison or join the army. They must be desperate indeed if he's typical of the kind of person they are relying on to defend the island against invasion.<br />
<br />
And that's the end of 'back to normal' day. Only it feels like a day when we ran around like headless chickens trying to second guess what would happen next and preparing as much as possible for something we couldn't predict or even imagine. C is back with us, and that's the most important thing. At least we are all together now to face the next stage. Whatever it will be.<br />
<br />
We don't have to wait long to find out.<br />
<br />
That night L wakes up with dreadful stomach pains. From 3.00 am onwards, I pad backwards and forwards between the kitchen and the bedroom, massaging his belly, boiling up bush tea and worrying about how much gas I'm using.<br />
<br />
Something is niggling on the very periphery of my consciousness but I can't work out what it is. There are so many things that are 'not right'. I'm anxious and half-asleep and I can't focus on what this particular niggle might be.<br />
<br />
Soon after 5.00 am, H emerges from her room.<br />
'Have you heard it?' she says.<br />
'Heard what?'<br />
'The plane - circling high overhead. It's been buzzing faintly all night.'<br />
<br />
<a href="http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/44810000/jpg/_44810173_fb78f2ef-7f84-4f53-a733-7efa61380757.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/44810000/jpg/_44810173_fb78f2ef-7f84-4f53-a733-7efa61380757.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 152px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 203px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: 78%;">Image from BBC today<br />
<br />
</span></span></div>And now I identify the niggle and know its significance and why I'd been blocking on it. With tiny Pearls airport on the opposite side of the island, we never hear airplanes overhead. Yet H is right. This one has been circling for hours. Grenada has no air force, so this can mean only one thing.<br />
<br />
We're about to be invaded.Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-72398117356957873212023-01-05T08:37:00.002-08:002023-01-05T08:37:36.691-08:00Invasion - The First Two Hours<span style="font-weight: bold;">25th October</span><br />
<br />
It's 5.00 am, just after dawn, when H emerges from her room and draws my attention to the distant buzzing overhead of what we know must be a US reconnaissance plane. Moments later, we're joined by C and W. L, his belly ache forgotten, P and B all converge and we gather together in the one room.<br />
<br />
Nothing's happened yet but we know - just know - that's going to change any second now. I slot a blank tape into the machine, load a black and white film into my camera, grab my diary and a pen and switch on the radio.<br />
<br />
I have a compulsion to record. To bear witness. Somewhere in my brain I'm thinking that if I die, the tapes ...or the photos...or the diary...will survive as a record.<br />
<br />
And then it starts. 5.30 am. First the fighter jets, spewing fire as they cross overhead, with the immediate response from batteries of anti-aircraft fire all around us. The windows rattle. The house shakes. We don't know whether to sit, stand, run, huddle ...<br />
<br />
The announcers on Radio Free Grenada, a man and a woman, give the news in voices trembling with suppressed panic. They know the radio station will be a prime target.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">'Our country is under attack!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">All Grenadians report to militia bases. All health workers go immediately to the hospital. Foreign troops landed at 5.40. Our troops are engaging them in battle. Grenadians - go out and block the roads to obstruct the enemy's progress!</span>'<br />
<br /><b>
(NOTE: My diary says here that radio 610 reports a nuclear-powered ballistic sub has just left Barbados. Did I fiddle with the radio dial? It seems unlikely, but I suppose I must have done.)<br /></b>
<br />
A swarm of helicopter gunships swoops low over the hill opposite, almost touching the tops of the palm trees. All around the house there's an instant response from PRA fire. I press my camera to the window and fire off a few shots of my own.<br />
<br />
I've seen this movie, I remember thinking. Apocalypse Now. And I know what happens.<br />
<br />There's a feeling of being in the epicentre at the end of the world. This can't be right. The sky should be boiling. The earth should be ripping apart. The sun should explode into a million fragments and cast us into darkness.<br />
<br />
But none of this happens. While the jets roar, the bombs drop, the guns spurt, the tanks grind and the chopper blades clatter - the sky is still blue, the sun still shines down regardless and the palm trees still wave - even if the breeze is manmade.<br />
<br />
Lines from Bob Marley's Redemption Song run through my head.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery<br />
None but ourselves can free our mind.<br />
Have no fear for atomic energy -</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
Cause none of them can stop the time.</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">How long shall they kill our prophets </span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
While we stand aside and look?</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
Some say it's just a part of it</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
We've got to fulfill de book.</span><br />
<br />
I remember distinctly standing in the middle of the room and making a short speech, shouting to be heard above the tumult.<br />
<br />
'<span style="font-style: italic;">Look now. We don't know if we're going to live through this,' </span>I say<span style="font-style: italic;">. 'We could be dead by the end of the day, or in the next hour or the next minute or before I get to the next word. Now is not the time to hang onto your ganja! Break it out, guys!</span>'<br />
<br />
And so they do. All the men have sizable stashes and we go about the serious business of getting out of our heads. And it helps, it really does. You can understand why, throughout history, soldiers have turned to drugs to get them through.<br />
<br />
W panics for a bit and dives behind the settee, freaking out, but together we calm him somehow. B, who has been so ill and withdrawn these past weeks, is more animated than I've seen him for ages. Adrenalin, I guess.<br />
<br />
We have surreal discussions. Is it better to keep the windows open, or shut? We rack our brains to access the common sense response. We know that if we close them, the glass is more likely to shatter. But leaving them open feels more vulnerable, illogical though we know that to be. We go with emotional over rational and decide to close the windows, in spite of the heat. But then a bird, panicky and disorientated, flings itself repeatedly against the glass and we don't dare open them again.<br />
<br />
Should we take cover? Where? How? We try crouching down for a bit. I glance up and am impressed to see C sitting, apparently calm and composed, on the settee. (She tells me later that she was paralysed by fear and unable to move.) After a short time our cramped muscles start to protest and we feel silly, so stand up again. But what <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> you do in this situation?<br />
<br />
'<span style="font-style: italic;">We all stay together</span>,' C says. '<span style="font-style: italic;">In the same room. It's what my mum told me they did during the blitz. If one dies, we all die.</span>'<br />
<br />
This seems a good plan and we all agree. Surviving, possibly injured, while those we love lie dead in another room seems a far worse alternative to death.<br />
<br />
'<span style="font-style: italic;">US paratroopers are invading Grenada with helicopter gunships</span>,' the radio announcer informs us with barely-contained hysteria.<br />
<br />
But Grenada is so small that we see confirmation through our own window, instants before we're given the information over the airwaves and so we know. We know.<br />
<br />
And then the broadcaster's voice is replaced by music!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">'Let them come. Let them come. We will bury them in the sea</span>.'<br />
<br />
The defiant song that epitomised the spirit of the revo, the words so hollow now. If this invasion had happened just a week earlier, Grenadians really would be out blocking the roads, fighting back with antiquated weapons, laying down their lives for the revo rather than submit.<br />
<br />
But the revo is already dead. It died on the 19th up at the fort with Maurice.<br />
<br />
More panicky radio announcements, this time punctuated by reggae - songs we've heard a thousand times before. Bob Marley's War. Peter Tosh's Peace Treaty.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://usma.files.wordpress.com/2007/02/bobmarley.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://usma.files.wordpress.com/2007/02/bobmarley.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 154px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 206px;" /></a>And - how bizarre is this - standing in the centre of that concrete room, not knowing if we will live or die, time having shrunk to the merest milli-second (we could die <span style="font-style: italic;">now</span>...or <span style="font-style: italic;">now</span>...or <span style="font-style: italic;">now</span>) but also high on the spliffs we've been chain-smoking - I find myself skanking to the familiar rhythms.<br />
<br />
It's 6.50 am and the close fighting has slackened off a little when I glimpse a mind-bending sight through the window. PC is walking towards our house carrying a pumpkin! I shake my head, but it's not a hallucination. As though protected by an invisible cloak of invulnerability, he saunters up the steps to our balcony and into the house. He's so relaxed and cool (though also very high, I note from his bloodshot eyes) his presence has an instant soothing effect and any vestiges of panic dissipate.<br />
<br />
PC tells us he's been through the bush and saw paratroopers dropped by rope from the helicopter gunships onto the Governor General's house at the top of the hill and also onto Richmond Hill, on the other side of the house. He saw equipment dropped too, in massive cylinders. How many different ways there are to kill people.<br />
<br />
PC leaves and it's a bit quieter now. We have no idea if this is just a lull and if so, how long it will last. At 7.10 am, inspired by PC's example, I go to the end of the gap to fetch ice from the fridge in C's house. An ambulance screeches past on the road.<br />
<br />
The scared voices on RFG keep making the same announcements.<br />
<br />
'<span style="font-style: italic;">All health workers and volunteers to the hospital. Paint red marks on your cars</span>.'<br />
<br />
We have to do something. We can't just sit and there's only so much time you can spend fiddling with the radio and scribbling notes. So what do we do? We cook porridge and eat it standing, shoveling it into our mouths in haste. You never know when we might next eat, we reason. We have to keep our strength up.<br />
<br />
In truth though, it's just for something to do. No one says that it might be our last meal.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes later, at 7.45 am, RFG abruptly goes off the air without warning. We hear a disembodied voice with an American accent, seemingly coming from the sky. (Where did that come from? I never did find out ...)<br />
<br />
'<span style="font-style: italic;">Tune to 1580 frequency. Please stay inside for your own safety. The American soldiers have taken over</span>.'<br />
<br />
In my diary, I write in large capital letters: <span style="font-style: italic;">IT TOOK 2 HOURS!</span><br />
<br />
But of course it was far from over yet.Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-71759912565152693702023-01-05T08:37:00.001-08:002023-01-05T08:37:23.922-08:00War - The Next Four Hours<span style="font-weight: bold;">25th October </span><br />
<br />
It's at 7.45 am, just over two hours after the fighting first began, that we hear the mysterious disembodied voice telling us the American soldiers have taken over and instructing us to tune into 1580 frequency.<br />
<br />
Can it really all be over that soon? Continuing heavy artillery fire all around us suggests otherwise.<br />
<br />
At 7.55 am we hear the first broadcast on the new frequency but the message is not intended for us.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Do not approach within fifty nautical miles of Grenada. Any aircraft</span> flying <span style="font-style: italic;">over will be treated as hostile to the multinational forces.</span><br />
<br />
Grenada is tiny and defenseless. It's clear the US can do what the hell they like with no one to stop them. The announcement is repeated in Spanish and then the broadcast continues with a 'history' lesson:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">In 1979 the New Jewel Movement seized power and turned the nation into a Cuban surrogate. People were imprisoned without trial. Economic policy bankrupted the country. Children were brainwashed. Tens of thousands of people left Grenada. There were no elections. A more repressive clique is now operating on the orders of a foreign power. They terrorised foreign visitors. The US have been forced to attack in order to rescue their own citizens</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Stability and tranquility are rapidly being restored.</span><br />
<br />
We gawp at each other, appalled at this blatant and crass attempt to rewrite history. Who is this message intended for? Are they honestly trying to persuade Grenadians that this is what they've been experiencing for the past four and a half years?<br />
<br />
Where to start to convey how corrupted this version of events is?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Economic policy bankrupted?</span> When ordinary people were better off during the revo and had more hope than ever before?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Children brainwashed?</span> Did they need to be brainwashed to recognise their place in a search for a fair and egalitarian society with justice for all?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Tens of thousands of people leaving?</span> When the total population is only about 100,000?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">No elections? </span> When this is what Maurice had promised to work towards?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Now operating on orders of a foreign power? </span> Do they mean Cuba? Who did not hesitate to condemn the coup? And when the US are the foreign power who have in reality taken over by force?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Terrorised foreign visitors? </span>Eh? Who? When? Whatever we may think about the leaders of the coup, it was clear they were desperate to appease foreigners in the country...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">US forced to attack?</span> When we all know they've been looking for an excuse ever since 1979? And that just a few short months ago they carried out a naval exercise nearby on the fictional 'Amber and the Amberines' - clearly practice for invading Grenada and the Grenadines?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Rescue their own citizens?</span> Does this mean the medical students whose safety has been assured by the RMC?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Stability and tranquility being restored? </span> So how come the battle is still raging around us? In spite of the comparatively low numbers of people opposing them since the coup sapped the will from the vast majority of the people?<br />
<br />
So since they must know that those hearing this fantasy version are fully aware of the reality, just who are they hoping to convince? It's mindbending. As the announcer finishes speaking, we find out just how mindbending the battle for hearts and minds can be when his voice is replaced by music.<br />
<br />
Not reggae now. No uplifting messages of rebellion and survival. This time our ears are blasted by US disco music. The cultural takeover has begun, hot on the heels of the bullets and the bombs.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><br />
<br />
</span></span></div>At 8.05 am there's more weasel words from 1580: that the US and our Caribbean neighbours were concerned for us. That they are here to restore peace and order. It feels like they're making it up as they go along. But then the words become more sinister and heavy again:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Do not hinder our efforts to stabilise your nation. Everyone stay at home. Foreigners should all stay neutral. The military forces are from neighbouring countries and the US. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Stay inside and away from windows. Confiscate weapons from your children. Co-operate. Report the location of those resisting the international forces. Allow the forces into your homes. Ignore instructions from non-friendly forces.</span><br />
<br />
There's so much to take in. Over the last week there have been so many ghastly developments, so many emotional swings and extremes to try to adapt to. We're numb but our minds are racing, trying to keep up and maintain some kind of clarity of thought.<br />
<br />
There are more words on 1580 at 8.15 am. The contradictions are piling up and it really does feel that they're thinking on their feet as much as we are. This time they tell us that the US forces have come in at the request of our Caribbean neighbours. That they constitute an <span style="font-style: italic;">emergency relief operation. </span>They are only here to get US citizens out. They have no intention of harming Grenadians. This time there's no mention of their role in intending to stabilise the country, though they do say <span style="font-style: italic;">peace and democracy will be restored in the near future.</span><br />
<br />
Meanwhile, we can still hear the sounds of fighting, though it is more distant now. Each time this happens, we have no way of knowing whether or not it is temporary.<br />
<br />
Excerpt from my diary: <span style="font-style: italic;">Make tapes, take photos, write this. A horrible calm. Our outsides remain really calm but our insides are doing really strange things.</span><br />
<br />
8.25 am - more words and yet another psychological tack with a direct appeal to those opposing them:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Members of the PRA and militia - do not resist. Do not risk your lives.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Help us.</span><br />
<br />
At 8.40 am there is constant heavy booming from the top of the hill when we lose the radio signal. There's still a spy plane circling high overhead. It makes us feel even more isolated and vulnerable when we discover that there's no news at all about what's happening on the regional radio stations.<br />
<br />
Then at 9.00 am we catch some news at last on the BBC World Service. It just confirms the details originally given on RFG about the first assault but then they go on to say the US have captured the radio station and the airport. The broadcast is momentarily drowned out as a fighter jet shrieks across the skies overhead.<br />
<br />
The announcer goes on to say the troops moved off from Barbados during the night and that they consist of Jamaican, Bajan and US forces, but the US presence is supposedly just to supervise evacuation of their own citizens. There has been no comment from the Pentagon. British troops are not involved.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/39289000/jpg/_39289657_800grenada.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/39289000/jpg/_39289657_800grenada.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 152px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 203px;" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">Image from <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/271348.stm">BBC</a><br />
<br />
</span></span></div>At 9.20 am, Trinidad at last acknowledges the situation, saying that PM Chambers has ordered an emergency meeting, and that Reagan is to make a broadcast on US TV.<br />
<br />
At 9.30 am, I note in my diary that the close firing has stopped. 1580 is still off the air and we don't know how to interpret that. Just behind the house is Richmond Hill, where there are forts, the prison and also the mental hospital, known locally as 'the crazy house'. The Hill has come in for some of the heaviest fire and now that it's quieter, we can hear bawling from there. My diary also says that we hear that a chopper has been brought down but we don't know if it's true. <b>(NOTE: I have no recollection where we heard that information, which was indeed true.)</b><br />
<br />
On radio 610, we hear the voice of the old cowboy himself at 9.30 am when Reagan speaks, together with Eugenia Charles, PM of Dominica and chair of the Organisation of East Caribbean States (OECS). It's reasoned propaganda, mainly focusing on the lack of elections in Grenada. Reagan says that the OECS requested US help on Sunday and they agreed to intervene for three reasons: <span style="font-style: italic;">to protect innocent lives, forestall further chaos and restore law and order.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.usatoday.com/news/_photos/2005/09/07/charles.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://images.usatoday.com/news/_photos/2005/09/07/charles.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 180px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 180px;" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">Image from <a href="http://www.usatoday.com/news/world/2005-09-07-eugenia-charles-dies_x.htm">USA Today</a><br />
<br />
</span></span></div>He seems keen to focus attention on the Caribbean presence and minimise the suggestion that the US is pulling the strings. <span style="font-style: italic;">Troops</span>, he says, <span style="font-style: italic;">include those from Antigua, Barbados, Jamaica, St Lucia, and St Vincents.</span><br />
<br />
9.45 am - more bombing close by. Radio Antilles reports that invading troops have taken over the radio station, Pearls Airport, the power station at Queens Park and the unfinished international airport at Point Salines, having cleared the runway of barbed wire and obstructions.<br />
<br />
Ah yes. Point Salines. That will be the airport still under construction in the south of the island that the US have been saying for years is far bigger than Grenada needs for tourist flights and is intended for military purposes. And the first time it's used...is for the military purposes of the US.<br />
<br />
10.00 am - CBC reports one US soldier dead and thirteen Cuban construction workers taken prisoner.<br />
<br />
10.10 am - 1580 is still off the air. We hear gunfire and then there's a heavy blast nearby, followed by more. There must be PRA in the bush behind the house. From the window we can see a plane firing down. Actually see the fire spurting. There seems to be more than one of them, but because we're inside and they are directly overhead, we can't be sure.<br />
<br />
11.00 am - still no 1580. Blasting and anti-aircraft fire has been going on non stop. Radio 610 reports that Guyana and Cuba are condemning the invasion. They say that three Cubans have been killed and one US soldier died when his helicopter was shot down. Several Cubans have been imprisoned. Though there has been no UK intervention HMS Antrim is standing ready to evacuate the 250 (???) British citizens on the island.<br />
<br />
CBC says that thirty two Russian military advisers have been arrested and that the fighting is being led by Cubans. But we know that the Cubans on the island are nearly all engineers employed in constructing the international airport. Where are the regional stations getting their information from anyway? From US sources? Because they've already amply demonstrated just how high a value they place on the truth...<br />
<br />
There's gunfire on either side of us now. Just yards away in the bush around the house, people are fighting and maybe dying.<br />
<br />
My diary reports <span style="font-style: italic;">close gunfire</span> at this point, heavily underlined.<br />
<br />
I look at the faded pages of my diary now and I can see what I was doing. My frantic urge to record led me to compulsively note down every nuance, knowing in the shrunken timescale that each note could be my last. Anyway, how else was I supposed to pass the time? Keep busy. Keep busy.<br />
<br />
And maybe this was also a way of extracting a tiny fragment of control when patently we had none whatsoever. I might not have been able to control what would happen to me, but at least I could record it.<br />
<br />
Maybe too that need to exert a minimal degree of control (and keep busy) was why, when PC popped back to see us at midday, I decided to go out through the bush with him on a mission to track down cigarettes...Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-57391406571944764892023-01-05T08:37:00.000-08:002023-01-05T08:37:10.905-08:00Still Before Midday...<span style="font-weight: bold;">25th October </span><br />
<br />
When this is all over I'll freak out, I tell myself. If I survive. Right now I just need to concentrate on living in the moment and getting through.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgg3zetwD4EcaxrdKE7ghSdw_6F4SDijAlYp4JGlRlWSFuvGf9VpXh0aYvNmL2jOpD-dK-Osp2VgJXrGfwUHyC1KD24RMLSv2a7QTKO0hQk0CcRtXjV1jWwaSnKahYosQ8G__XiSxos_GhXfXPm0Cj4AigQyaseK_X-kRwBfP4DdXSdzIZb8xzOX-BI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2248" data-original-width="3438" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgg3zetwD4EcaxrdKE7ghSdw_6F4SDijAlYp4JGlRlWSFuvGf9VpXh0aYvNmL2jOpD-dK-Osp2VgJXrGfwUHyC1KD24RMLSv2a7QTKO0hQk0CcRtXjV1jWwaSnKahYosQ8G__XiSxos_GhXfXPm0Cj4AigQyaseK_X-kRwBfP4DdXSdzIZb8xzOX-BI" width="320" /></a></div><br />
We've been smoking since the first wave of helicopter gunships appeared over the hill opposite at 6.30 this morning. But not cigarettes. Spliffs are rolled 'ital' - pure ganja without tobacco - but we're all now feeling the need for an ordinary ciggy and there are none in the house.<br />
<br />
So just before midday, when PC ambles up our path oblivious to the gunfire for the second time that day, we hope he'll be able to help. He can - but only up to a point. Yes, he has a friend who owns a shop nearby and would be able to sell us cigarettes. No, he won't get them for us and bring them back. One of us will have to go with him. All eyes turn to me.<br />
<br />
Looking back, I wonder about this. Any one of us could have gone with him...I guess we all have our roles to play and this was mine at the time. It doesn't make me braver - or even more stupid - than the others. It just is what it is.<br />
<br />
PC is so chilled and laid back it's impossible to imagine anything terrible happening to him. Or to me while I'm with him. Anyway, I'm acutely aware that every decision - small or large - is potentially one of life and death. I could stay in the house with the others and it could suffer a direct hit at any time. If this were to happen while I'm out with PC, it would save my life. On the other hand, leaving the comparative security of our four walls for the unknowable outside world would seem to hold a greater risk. But not necessarily.<br />
<br />
You just can't know the consequences of any action - or inaction - and in the end you have to do what you have to do. We need cigarettes. I'm prepared to go. So I do.<br />
<br />
And here's a thing. Most of this day is crystal clear in my head, the memories as fresh - or fresher - than yesterday's. But there are gaps and I think they're significant. For example, I have no recollection of saying goodbye to the others when I left with PC. Did we all hug and kiss, knowing we might never see each other again? Or did I just give a cheery wave and set off with false bravado, refusing to acknowledge the awful possibility? I really can't be sure...<br />
<br />
At first it's OK. I follow PC through the bush though within minutes I'm confused and disorientated with no idea where we are. But there's no close fighting and I don't feel particularly scared. We emerge at his friend's shop and go up the stairs and into his house at the back for a smoke. The guy (whose name I don't recall) tells us he's been on the phone to someone in town who says the PRA are still holding St Georges.<br />
<br />
To my disappointment, PC sits down and makes himself comfortable and the two men chat. They're drinking rum and acting like it's just a social call. Now I've got the cigarettes I feel like my mission's accomplished and I just want to get back to my own friends. But my companions are not budging. I sit and twitch for a while until I pluck up courage to tell PC I want to go home and can he please take me? He's in no hurry. With no clear sense of where we are, I can't just leave without him. Besides, I balk at the thought of going through the bush on my own.<br />
<br />
He tells me to go downstairs and wait for him outside and, hoping it will increase his sense of urgency, I do as I'm told. But this is not good. I'm alone now, in unfamiliar surroundings and outside. Though there appears to be no fighting in the immediate vicinity, I can hear the sounds of gunfire and the grinding of tanks not that far away. I can't go back in and risk irritating PC. But I can't set off on my own either. I have no choice but to stand and wait. And wait. And wait.<br />
<br />
With no means of telling the time, I have no idea how long I stand there alone, my heart pounding as anxiety wells up in my chest. It feels like forever but the rational part of my brain knows it must be far less than it feels. After several lifetimes have been and gone, PC emerges at last and comes down the stairs. Red-eyed and staggering a little, he's chirpy as ever, but I no longer believe he's invulnerable. I'm torn between hugging him in relief or shouting at him in frustration. Neither are really options, so I just follow meekly as he leads me back through the bush.<br />
<br />
This time I'm shocked at how close I've been to home all this time. If only I'd known, but since I didn't there would have been every chance that if I'd set off alone I could easily have wandered in the wrong direction and got completely lost.<br />
<br />
And, of course, as soon as I arrive bearing nicotine, I'm greeted as the conquering hero by the others, who have been suffering their own versions of the same anxieties all this time. Small triumphs.<br />
<br />
Although there's still no close gunfire, we're shaken when fighter jets screech overhead in the direction of St Georges. My diary tells me that at 12.40 we switch off the radio for twenty minutes. I have another memory gap here and can't remember why we do this.<br />
<br />
At 1.00pm two helicopter gunships circle low over Mt Parnassus firing down. The house judders again as there's an immediate response from ground fire. In shaky writing my diary records that I think one chopper has been shot down, but as this is directly overhead and we're indoors, I can't be sure. <div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgVODbayqc-7GpW0PKUA8Y5YZBoXExH_iD_TWu2NMhIJKB2xdC7z0wnEXwZorDK9DIIqH5gnF4u7YgEJwbmF_b3cSFuOB57L2hfc4tQC5lk44zBoauqggeCvOjFhuPANS9B2XjjimbZYaUSDJYYoMroq3jvapmYILrt_15y_X3xkiBnteFY8k-s_ZT/s3299/IMG_8774.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2173" data-original-width="3299" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgVODbayqc-7GpW0PKUA8Y5YZBoXExH_iD_TWu2NMhIJKB2xdC7z0wnEXwZorDK9DIIqH5gnF4u7YgEJwbmF_b3cSFuOB57L2hfc4tQC5lk44zBoauqggeCvOjFhuPANS9B2XjjimbZYaUSDJYYoMroq3jvapmYILrt_15y_X3xkiBnteFY8k-s_ZT/s320/IMG_8774.HEIC" width="320" /></a><div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>
Excerpt from my diary: <span style="font-style: italic;">Jets and ground fire. Loud explosion - we all think it's the chopper coming down. 1580 still off air - has it gone on longer than expected? Shooting lasts perhaps 5 mins. 1.40 - more firing - not so close. 1.55 - more firing - jets. Vehicles go up our road v fast. Jump jets circling right over. Firing overhead again - for about 10 mins. 2.20 - circling over Queens Park. Groundfire. Overhead again. Heavy artillery fire. Circling Mt Parnassus, Richmond Hill, Queens Park. 2.38 - 2 bombs dropped on Richmond Hill. Force to throw you against wall. Great red flash and debris spraying out then smoke. 2.43 - still firing on Richmond Hill - Forts Matthew, Frederick and Adolphus. 2.46 - 2 more bombs. Walls in my room cracked. Then silence.</span><br />
<br />
I said earlier that some parts of this day I recall with absolute clarity. The last events recorded in that diary entry above fall into that category. Richmond Hill, rising just beyond my bedroom window, has huge strategic importance. As well as the three forts, the prison and the mental hospital - the 'crazy house' - are also lined up along its summit.<br />
<br />
L, P and I are sitting on my bed, our eyes fixed on the horror we see unfolding through the window. The others are all sitting on the floor in the hall outside the toilet. They've succumbed to attacks of the giggles - everyone talking about what a good cure for constipation war is, but how none of them dares to go into the toilet.<br />
<br />
After the first two close blasts, L panics. He throws himself down to lie prone on the bed with his hands over his head.<br /><br /></div><div>
'I don't like the bombs. I don't like the bombs,' he moans.<br />
<br />
P and I are the only ones still looking through the window, watching with mounting horror as the blasts move along the crest of the hill, each closer to us than the last. I'm alternately scribbling notes and taking photos. When the final bomb throws us away from the wall, I feel as though my heart has stopped. I can still see the vivid flash and the black debris hurl into the air at the point of impact. The image is burned into my retina.<br />
<br />
'Oh my god,' I breathe, before raising my camera and taking a couple of quick shots. In the lull that follows, we can hear the sounds of bawling. My mind shuts down to avoid imagining the source of those terrible cries. I'll freak out later, I tell myself. When all this is over. If I get through this time...</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMgbWT9TbLRVgwJwzuUcvOLblnZeFN6lTGwNr-_y7UN-fT23bzmJkMv27XLGOyE8VxjX2f3aN2-5fLVNHFljf7N5VuD3EMigSEvrxI7rTRbsSlRx9fpTtpgebtrgejxUt7GFHZMqAYXWLxANKlVi5Md1i44YYE5EeqjLfAKnpmTH40cWVVUkPIWat_/s3170/IMG_8775%202.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2122" data-original-width="3170" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMgbWT9TbLRVgwJwzuUcvOLblnZeFN6lTGwNr-_y7UN-fT23bzmJkMv27XLGOyE8VxjX2f3aN2-5fLVNHFljf7N5VuD3EMigSEvrxI7rTRbsSlRx9fpTtpgebtrgejxUt7GFHZMqAYXWLxANKlVi5Md1i44YYE5EeqjLfAKnpmTH40cWVVUkPIWat_/s320/IMG_8775%202.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>
The ghastly almost-silence is shortlived. At 3.06 the choppers start circling again, higher this time, and there's distant shelling. At 3.28, PC comes back yet again. He's been checked by the PRA, who say they are looking for a radio technical operator. He says the US now control Region1, but I'm not sure what that means. He also tells us that either Fort Rupert (where Maurice and the others were murdered - can it be only 6 days ago?) or Butler House (he's not sure which) has been bombed. He's going to hide out in the bush now and may not see us again for some time. While he's there we hear PRA armoured cars grinding up the hill behind the house.<br />
<br />
Soon after PC leaves, tensions spill over and there's an argument between B and W.<br />
<br />
Excerpt from my diary: <span style="font-style: italic;">3.50 - 4 jets high circling over NW. 4.39 - rapid gunfire out the back. Tank? Sounds like the armoured cars we saw. Yes it has to be - deep heavy rumbling behind shots. Planes circling still. 4.57 - fighter jet overhead.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
5.00 radio 610: 'invading forces have strong advantage. Cuba acknowledges unknown number of casualties ... 2 choppers crashed. Sporadic fighting in St Georges. Fort Frederick and Govt House still being fought over. 3 civilians killed. Thatcher has very considerable doubts about the invasion. HMS Antrim to stay clear of operations.'</span><br />
<br />
At 5.05 the radio goes dead and we realise the current has been switched off.<br />
<br />
At 5.25 - PC returns with a dire warning. Don't drink the water! There's a rumour it could be poisoned. Right. So now we have no electricity and no water. We try to assimilate this latest information and the implications. And that's not the only dreadful news. PC also tells us that he's heard that three hundred people died at the fort on the 19th.<br />
<br />
The evening continues in the same vein. Sporadic close fighting and then lulls of varying length. With darkness falling and no light apart from candles, no radio or music and no water, we have to decide whether we want to spend the night huddled all together in the dark. Another argument breaks out, this time between P and L, and W and C decide to return to their own home.<br />
<br />
To be honest, I don't like this. I preferred it when we were all together. But I can see that the tension is just too great and we can't carry on like this through the night.<br />
<br />
L and I go to bed and spend the night making love with a desperate passion and then just lie holding each other. Without saying it aloud, we both know we're thinking the same thing. Could this be the last time? Will we be alive in the morning?<br />
<br />
Each of us have different coping mechanisms and mine has been to keep busy busy busy at all times. The enforced inactivity of lying in the dark, never knowing if the next instant could be our last, is harder for me than any part of the day itself had been.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div></div>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-62604134990459271522023-01-05T08:36:00.004-08:002023-01-05T08:36:57.943-08:00The War Continues<span style="font-weight: bold;">26th - 27th October </span><br />
<br />
The night passes without incident. We've survived our first day of war. From 1.00 am onwards, there are jets circling overhead constantly, but otherwise it's comparatively quiet with no direct combat.<br />
<br />
All that changes at 5.00 am. Just before dawn, the still-dark sky is ripped apart by phosphorescent flares and there's an immediate response as anti-aircraft guns blast in response. We hear three loud blasts as bombs go off in the distance. Tanks are grinding up the hill and there's firing immediately around our house. H emerges from her room to say she could hear PRA in the bush beneath her window and then she saw one of them running out from the trees.<br />
<br />
We all gather together again and switch the radio on, aware that we have limited battery life and there's still no current, but we have to prepare ourselves to face whatever this next day will bring.<br />
<br />
Trinidad radio tells us that the US are sending reinforcements.<br />
<br />
Incredible. They must be meeting more resistance than they anticipated. But this is tinged with terrible sadness as we know that there can't be that many people prepared to lay down their lives for a revolution that no longer exists. Once again, we reflect how different the scene would have been if the invasion had happened before Maurice and the others were murdered.<br />
<br />
Since the coup, invasion is seen as preferable to the alternative. That, more than any other single factor, is a measure of the depths of the crime committed at the fort on the 19th.<br />
<br />
Throughout the day, the fighting continues. Sometimes in the distance and sometimes frighteningly close by with helicopters, jets, tanks and anti-aircraft fire. You never know if each lull could signal the end of combat or if things could get still worse.<br />
<br />
Excerpt from my diary: <span style="font-style: italic;">The 'present' has shrunk to RIGHT NOW. NOW IS FOREVER.</span><br />
<br />
We still have no current and are operating the radio on batteries. At some point, we decide to drink the water. This seems incredible looking back now but in reality there's little choice and it's a risk we decide we have to take. We feel our fate is not in our own hands anyway and what will be, will be.<br />
<br />
As yesterday, we receive frequent visits and updates from PC.<br />
<br />
PC says there's fighting on the streets of Tempe.<br />
PC says the loud blasts are from the camp behind the Lord Chief Justice's house.<br />
PC says he's been to Queens Park, where the US troops are based.<br />
PC says we just need the inevitable end to come and he led the GIs to a hidden arms cache.<br />
PC says many of the PRA are stripping off their uniforms and melting into the bush.<br />
PC says the prison has been bombed and the Mongoose Men (hated and feared as the henchman of Gairy, the dictator ousted by the Revo) are out on the streets.<br />
PC says Hudson Austin has been located at Sans Souci, Tempe junction. There are rumours he's holding hostages.<br />
PC says there's lots of looting going on in town.<br />
<br />
Every detail he imparts has significance beyond the obvious. One thing is clear. Tempe is in a small geological bowl surrounded by hills - the Governor General's house, the Lord Chief Justice's house, Richmond Hill with the forts and the prison, Mt Parnassus...No wonder the fighting is so close by.<br />
<br />
And yet - in spite of this - it's impossible to stay huddled in our yard now that the first day is over and we don't know how long this war will last. In the late afternoon, H and I go for a walk down Tempe road during one of the lulls. We reach Midway, where there's a small group of people liming. As we walk a little further, there's a blast and smoke rises up from beside the river - just yards away from us.<br />
<br />
It's amazing how quickly we've become desensitised to the dangers. A couple of days ago, that one blast would have had us scurrying for shelter in panic. Now we just stop in the road and say it might be better not to go any further. We wander back and join the limers. While we're sitting there, perched on the wall, we are passed by van-loads of people on their way to Queens Park to see the US troops. P returns, having made a trip into town and tells us that NCB, Huggins and all the tourist shops have been looted, with one bar completely smashed in by an armoured car.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Thursday 27th October</span><br />
<br />
There's sporadic fighting throughout the night but now that we've become accustomed to the concept of war (how fast that happened!) each day is different.<br />
<br />
On this third day, PC comes round at 7.00 am accompanied by his young daughter, R. H and I walk with them to Tempe junction. The Shell garage on River Road has been razed and there's damage to the nylon factory. We come across a dismantled PRA anti-aircraft gun in the bush by the road.<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_00wsOV2VVlF4gdos078xdBLAZl_fMx9HdHwbioTHw66RTKe4zyE0tJML_nB2rHctPFh0uXCby4MVFVIjM7lbOluIgHXUOyViBE4PGrze6JrM8be3eS_0dx8eV9jotANoe869h47G9RJsS_D2zUh7f9Xo91zuGvcpVZKe4yiIsKSG26oLE5vsqdW/s3287/IMG_8394.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3287" data-original-width="2162" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_00wsOV2VVlF4gdos078xdBLAZl_fMx9HdHwbioTHw66RTKe4zyE0tJML_nB2rHctPFh0uXCby4MVFVIjM7lbOluIgHXUOyViBE4PGrze6JrM8be3eS_0dx8eV9jotANoe869h47G9RJsS_D2zUh7f9Xo91zuGvcpVZKe4yiIsKSG26oLE5vsqdW/s320/IMG_8394.HEIC" width="210" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>There are lots of people on the streets and vehicles pass, bearing white flags. Our hearts ache as we note that the general mood is one of victory. I think it must be relief that the end must surely be in sight and people are euphoric to have survived through this last week when one trauma has followed another with no respite.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7IVt8egGW4YVuTY2dkmppQjBAbSC4YdiFPsQxS574tZdKVmR6rv_-UsMmUpHKMvG_yWlr1bOScsd6l9plZy1zjODpQIvabyA4JSliLwXnIYP_nituFHyyCoP3Ca8VQKiTxInusrCsuMj23dADpzE_bJk0zG_O3mhDD32_6weD5OQ8mvIvYzDfjxVF/s3111/IMG_8397.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3111" data-original-width="1958" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7IVt8egGW4YVuTY2dkmppQjBAbSC4YdiFPsQxS574tZdKVmR6rv_-UsMmUpHKMvG_yWlr1bOScsd6l9plZy1zjODpQIvabyA4JSliLwXnIYP_nituFHyyCoP3Ca8VQKiTxInusrCsuMj23dADpzE_bJk0zG_O3mhDD32_6weD5OQ8mvIvYzDfjxVF/s320/IMG_8397.HEIC" width="201" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>But now there are new horrors to assimilate. We're introduced to three men - and are told they are Mongoose Men, escaped from the prison. Then there's another man we meet - and our stomachs lurch when we hear he is the counter revolutionary charged with planting the bomb in Queens Park that killed three women, back in 1980. And a Rasta is pointed out to us as having recently killed a priest.<br />
<br />
Whereas we've always felt in Grenada that everyone we meet is likely to be on the same side, that is patently no longer the case. It's not only the US troops we have to fear. We resolve to watch and smile and take things in, but keep our mouths firmly shut.<br />
<br />
If anything, the soldiers we meet are anything but frightening. Most of them are very young and many of them seem scared - and also confused.<br />
<br />
'<span style="font-style: italic;">Who are we supposed to be fighting?</span>' one of them asks in a plaintive voice. '<span style="font-style: italic;">We thought it was the Grenadians, but ....' </span><br />
He looks round helplessly at the unthreatening people wandering along the road.<br />
'<span style="font-style: italic;">Is it the Cubans? We just don't know</span> ...'<br />
The lack of certainty has clearly disorientated them.<br />
One of them even asks us how long we think they'll be here. Like we would know...<br />
<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rscfKfczAq9nAm3kla1j4BROidMSW4ioIwVYPHl_y5vsCf-OtGx4r4kVH7R4WcTorGg2oiMWYxl-Pp_mxmPrVYUpXdFmPK6j9C6rSX308iX1z__s9saPvOVDGdWDroUD51kRDimM0BlSNOzYMiE2wjpP_9hY-uf_g1AFZzRodlbILG3Sy9MOLBO6/s2954/IMG_8399.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1885" data-original-width="2954" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rscfKfczAq9nAm3kla1j4BROidMSW4ioIwVYPHl_y5vsCf-OtGx4r4kVH7R4WcTorGg2oiMWYxl-Pp_mxmPrVYUpXdFmPK6j9C6rSX308iX1z__s9saPvOVDGdWDroUD51kRDimM0BlSNOzYMiE2wjpP_9hY-uf_g1AFZzRodlbILG3Sy9MOLBO6/s320/IMG_8399.heic" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>There's one soldier who has 'Better Dead than Red' stencilled on his helmet and I have to stifle the urge to giggle. Doesn't he know how much of a walking cliche he is? But then I realise. Just as much as our survival mechanism has often consisted of seeing this all as a movie, this must be true for them too.<br />
<br />
Queens Park is a hive of activity. The field is filled with rows of tanks, armoured cars and personnel carriers - all the paraphernalia of war.<br />
<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUIZ4vy6cO9cKPS4SzIHB-VApylNNxwJNupQGSeZvNNDNkux9BL2So2FsTD-nlNoX2j2jKnvriptUV1zlh6Syb0cJXXse40jlMCcEIM1M7FFkxRlHOsqBxjr-Q17a50o6ZYnjVNiXGCDbzp6i7SpGDwBP0t7iiIzb-anQ3HPhPGseQ2auHFOS3U5Va/s3088/IMG_8400.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2022" data-original-width="3088" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUIZ4vy6cO9cKPS4SzIHB-VApylNNxwJNupQGSeZvNNDNkux9BL2So2FsTD-nlNoX2j2jKnvriptUV1zlh6Syb0cJXXse40jlMCcEIM1M7FFkxRlHOsqBxjr-Q17a50o6ZYnjVNiXGCDbzp6i7SpGDwBP0t7iiIzb-anQ3HPhPGseQ2auHFOS3U5Va/s320/IMG_8400.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLr5th0uCfXrJJjQWN5sZW3V_Vt5BlmRRxAO3bVxy2cprvYQUDeOrYEztBK7SXoJR1ceG_Xk2fJk9iYT9I0k46mtBGpllnQtro1oizitMnaTYDUI8Ck6AN82uLbkriTbqtnfl0ae6NVUg/s1600-h/009.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>
Choppers take off and land, supplies are shifted, soldiers hang out. H and I zap into our own new roles and make light conversation with the GIs who tell us they're from 8th Battalion, 2nd Division.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilSqRK5wg0TfVUPSCHGtWeHSMOvQiwGZH9GiSyY505tlI9uBkuSFeQ1Sfxk28jphBR8fzIlVUnUxhbgyDdR0j6WTWxMceu1gAWDRU-M9nCgvqqQlIdPKWO7HCFipM3QuJitH40BXv71wn0XuhvthbYpjvkLzxJoTzXvN2CRvPgYX3eS3EaCFSOg9Pm/s3028/IMG_8401.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1913" data-original-width="3028" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilSqRK5wg0TfVUPSCHGtWeHSMOvQiwGZH9GiSyY505tlI9uBkuSFeQ1Sfxk28jphBR8fzIlVUnUxhbgyDdR0j6WTWxMceu1gAWDRU-M9nCgvqqQlIdPKWO7HCFipM3QuJitH40BXv71wn0XuhvthbYpjvkLzxJoTzXvN2CRvPgYX3eS3EaCFSOg9Pm/s320/IMG_8401.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiam_Xi19BYDqoat9OmYGdMgLX4aQVXRJX6_H-IDv5QWufDyzEzTeO6MMXFA7MKZWy9oGzDXf85PIAtoW4Kp8UW4xZEmuVtvi919iNiPZ_WS2mmFvWw9G-TqzokOesYWSyZruM0ACwd5Wty87IySa0KfaiYlqcHpT-aBzJ6gCJ_uRXfTWYS594edki/s3355/IMG_8403.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2319" data-original-width="3355" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiam_Xi19BYDqoat9OmYGdMgLX4aQVXRJX6_H-IDv5QWufDyzEzTeO6MMXFA7MKZWy9oGzDXf85PIAtoW4Kp8UW4xZEmuVtvi919iNiPZ_WS2mmFvWw9G-TqzokOesYWSyZruM0ACwd5Wty87IySa0KfaiYlqcHpT-aBzJ6gCJ_uRXfTWYS594edki/s320/IMG_8403.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>We walk round and onto the esplanade. The mood is heavier here. There's large scale looting, with some committed to getting as much as they can and others angrily berating them. Drivers whoosh past in stolen government vehicles. Nothing is off limits.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaOIMydm-W-jtRPeHd4P8JLevm3eHeF9RnB7kQ-yvrEbFeijLUzki34zCIv3jPi6Us1znb280osjAPLo1BWmHECfglD7af5sz1Gu2SH8aiTBUmBprWkXfEjwvRXyI3y2BS-nNkrbnQHrAmXP8e1QpiPTG6mPmRgHkSpzbutUeOOmTtRZQxaboMhcUU/s2575/IMG_8404.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2575" data-original-width="2097" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaOIMydm-W-jtRPeHd4P8JLevm3eHeF9RnB7kQ-yvrEbFeijLUzki34zCIv3jPi6Us1znb280osjAPLo1BWmHECfglD7af5sz1Gu2SH8aiTBUmBprWkXfEjwvRXyI3y2BS-nNkrbnQHrAmXP8e1QpiPTG6mPmRgHkSpzbutUeOOmTtRZQxaboMhcUU/s320/IMG_8404.HEIC" width="261" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<br />
As we wander round town, we see the bombed remains of Butler House, scene of so many happy parties in the old days. All of the banks and most of the shops have been broken into.<br />
<br />
And then I see something that penetrates the information-gathering shell I have taken on and makes me want to break down then and there and weep. A group of people are tearing up revo books in rage. Maybe these are people who were always against the revo. But I have a terrible fear that for some, the hideous experiences of the last week may have become associated with the revo itself and not with the actions of Coard and his cohorts.<br />
<br />
We walk into the Ghetto, where the mood toward us is cool. We're relieved to find we don't appear to be viewed with suspicion. We sit and smoke and reason for a while. The vibe here is split with some of the Rastas expressing fears that Grenada could become more like Texas or Jamaica. Several of them say they're convinced Coard is working directly for the CIA and I seize on this possibility.<br />
<br />
It's so much easier to believe than what in my heart of hearts I know to be true - that the revo was destroyed from within. And if we focus instead on the traditional enemy - the CIA - we fail to learn the terrible lessons and Maurice and the others will have died in vain.<br />
<br />
We meet people who began by fighting but then could see how little point there was and so backed off. As we walk up behind the Ghetto, we see that many of the houses here have been damaged and we see the charred patch on the ground where the chopper came down in Tanteen playing field. At the top of the hill, there's an abandoned PRA tank, with people busy syphoning off the petrol.<br />
<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizRSgURidrMbq_NiNvaI-l3ukh1U4kgg5EhsfI0_xxEPMdouzt4w7-Gab5u1gs3yLPUlWB3FsB-Q16laiyvBLazhrQRadq3c64lPX-J9TRc6WhX55-980mJD9lnm9QLVQbjWRTMMzc8_eX6geUq8zB-s1IXNcoDDmY4CMYeS0RqgzQUoShdK4h3HTJ/s2869/IMG_8396.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1937" data-original-width="2869" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizRSgURidrMbq_NiNvaI-l3ukh1U4kgg5EhsfI0_xxEPMdouzt4w7-Gab5u1gs3yLPUlWB3FsB-Q16laiyvBLazhrQRadq3c64lPX-J9TRc6WhX55-980mJD9lnm9QLVQbjWRTMMzc8_eX6geUq8zB-s1IXNcoDDmY4CMYeS0RqgzQUoShdK4h3HTJ/s320/IMG_8396.heic" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Back in Tempe, we see more evidence of people's determination to bring the war to a quick conclusion. S has organised search parties and has already found four PRA and delivered them to the US troops in Queens Park. People have been evacuated from the houses round Tempe quarry so the US can flush out the PRA reputed to be holed up there.<br />
<br />
And there are more contradictions when we get back home. W has looted a turtle back and while C and I are arguing with him about it, P arrives. As well as cigarettes and soap, he has taken the framed portrait of Maurice from Grencraft. We don't know what to say. Overwhelming sadness bubbles up at the poignant symbolism.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, L arrives, pouring with sweat and coated in mud and accompanied by three other guys. They're carrying sacks of flour, tools and god knows what else, looted from a military camp. This isn't as bad as looting from shops, I guess, but I'm concerned that it's all being shared out and distributed from our verandah.<br />
<br />
But the bottom line is that Grenada is their home and, as outsiders, we have no right to take the moral high ground and say what is or isn't acceptable. It's the steepest of learning curves.<br />
<br />
Another terrifying development. We've just heard the US troops have arrested J, a friend from Tempe. But he's not even in the PRA ...<br />
<br />
That night there's heavy fighting again. If war is a disease, we've moved from an acute to a chronic stage with occasional flare ups to remind us it's still far from over.<br />
<br />
But war is manmade and has nothing on Mother Nature. There's a massive storm during the night and we derive a sense of satisfaction that the lightning is brighter than the phosphorescent flares and the thunder out-blasts the bombs.</div>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-38612774552791796952023-01-05T08:36:00.003-08:002023-01-05T08:36:44.538-08:00Still Fighting<span style="font-weight: bold;">Friday 28th October</span><br />
<br />
Yesterday we heard that the Americans have arrested J, a friend in Tempe. This makes no sense. J was never a big supporter of the revo. He is a merchant seaman and was one of the people who welcomed the invasion with open arms, dancing in the street and celebrating.<br />
<br />
This morning, we hear the story from his own lips. He was in Queen's Park with the hordes of people greeting the troops when someone with a personal grudge pointed him out, saying he was active in the militia. He was dragged into the stadium which was packed with other Grenadians. They were all forced to lie spreadeagled and silent on the ground, surrounded by armed guards. It was only when J's frantic wife rushed back with his merchant's seaman's papers that they eventually let him go. He's very shaken but relieved to be free.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the close fighting is continuing sporadically, there's still no current, looters have cleared the shops, casualty figures are mounting according to regional radio reports and there's more stress and conflict between the men within our own yard.<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhqgA34RR8s1FqEX5R0osQBXuMxGGu6vBpacp0zkQcHvc_1VAQtgDuXyVZ4JrBPsAzsHjQwaXFfKhBYZPhgEgq2G56c_fPLecIYgyCZj1qtHpNMLUZwq0bLccxIQy-IAiNXH8Z_rlvi-GPw3FkbSxW8lUGuceqGzxhV1P8vJXhTpVj0Ur_MrK13wmw/s3336/IMG_8389.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2194" data-original-width="3336" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhqgA34RR8s1FqEX5R0osQBXuMxGGu6vBpacp0zkQcHvc_1VAQtgDuXyVZ4JrBPsAzsHjQwaXFfKhBYZPhgEgq2G56c_fPLecIYgyCZj1qtHpNMLUZwq0bLccxIQy-IAiNXH8Z_rlvi-GPw3FkbSxW8lUGuceqGzxhV1P8vJXhTpVj0Ur_MrK13wmw/s320/IMG_8389.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<br />Where do the radio stations get their information from? It can only be from US sources. With the sea and air exclusion zone still in operation, a fly couldn't get into or out of Grenada right now. And that means the US can do anything they like without fear of being judged by the rest of the world.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoV6inO-QYGX8MpVBFEwWTB8FkQorshiVx-okwN1EcMz7CRQJn88tGYsw43SWrL315s1kOhP0AEe_21n76k9YiZe2ZE51gHE6KHbE9fARyX4I-eETJUykKK8hSl1UiBJQKaq11X-n17bYDDm9M5uAPWZpAckymVQarHGa5OmDmvZptSnnuDhN7-tty/s3070/IMG_8388.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2090" data-original-width="3070" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoV6inO-QYGX8MpVBFEwWTB8FkQorshiVx-okwN1EcMz7CRQJn88tGYsw43SWrL315s1kOhP0AEe_21n76k9YiZe2ZE51gHE6KHbE9fARyX4I-eETJUykKK8hSl1UiBJQKaq11X-n17bYDDm9M5uAPWZpAckymVQarHGa5OmDmvZptSnnuDhN7-tty/s320/IMG_8388.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<br />4.00pm - BBC World Service - the marines will leave shortly to go to Lebanon, the Airborne division will remain. All Grenadian embassies abroad will be closed. The Governor General, Sir Paul Scoon, will be the only civilian authority until such time as elections can be held.<br />
<br />
5.00pm radio 610 - the 240 US students at the medical school have already returned to the States. (Only later do we hear that the 'rescue' of these students was the official justification for the invasion.)<br />
<br />
6.00pm radio 610 - the Red Cross are not being allowed in. There are accusations of contravention of the Geneva Convention.<br />
<br />
The US has total control over our lives.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC0Vo2aHbDWA5TgPuBx0WZu71iWI4huOQyjZITmBkpUdChEKPVjpYjOBiOW0KcVt0E-iH9jp3PCJCjBP40T7aVBIA7zHwaL6JwBkZy3zHbxXbqwLNcz4QlacbqyjSwUFpiGb4B38sAHRgwENqZj4otjjnbXpMhXXcpczUuhPWKzhXJJYv21pqLe0XN/s3197/IMG_8391.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2108" data-original-width="3197" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC0Vo2aHbDWA5TgPuBx0WZu71iWI4huOQyjZITmBkpUdChEKPVjpYjOBiOW0KcVt0E-iH9jp3PCJCjBP40T7aVBIA7zHwaL6JwBkZy3zHbxXbqwLNcz4QlacbqyjSwUFpiGb4B38sAHRgwENqZj4otjjnbXpMhXXcpczUuhPWKzhXJJYv21pqLe0XN/s320/IMG_8391.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>During our wandering round the area, we find that Caribbean troops are taking over at the Governor General's house. These are the first non US soldiers we have encountered.<br />
<br />
There's a roadblock on the hill just past Westmorland School with about 15 GIs searching all vehicles.<br />
<br />
Lagoon Road is packed with people looting a warehouse, encouraged by GIs who are also carting off goods and supplies.<br />
<br />
Each time we're spotted by soldiers, they ask if we want to be evacuated. When we refuse, they're confused. What does this mean that we choose to stay in a war zone when we're clearly not Grenadian? Some of them just shrug, others view us with narrow-eyed suspicion, while some turn distinctly hostile. We realise with a jolt that there can only be a handful of white people left on the island who are not soldiers. Most of the others, both tourists and politicos, have evacuated. We couldn't be more conspicuous...<br />
<br />
This is just the beginning of a new phase in which that visibility becomes more and more threatening.<br />
<br />
Not that it's safer to be Grenadian. P comes in late at night with 9 stitches in his arm. He got into a fight with a guy and GIs threatened to shoot them both.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Saturday 29th October</span><br />
<br />
Radio 610 says that <span style="font-style: italic;">the United Nations has censured the US for flagrant violation of international law </span><span style="font-style: italic;">but pockets of resistance consisting of Cubans and diehard Grenadians</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">are expected to last several more weeks.</span><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span> <br />
<br />
Incredible! All these thousands of troops, armed to the teeth with the latest technology, yet they had to call for reinforcements. And just who are they fighting? Less than a thousand Cuban engineers and what must be a mere handful of Grenadians who still believe there's a revolution worth defending. The mightiest army in the world, yet they have trouble subduing a tiny island where the majority of the population welcome them.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSnre9IsK6EJ1T-rGqfY6XzqQGTQ-NxTnfaOQ6xpEOWxpLMZaMepVAqqfaBSkHIdjFE55awo_ku7kzZTFw5iZucenhLv6wBH9J2hLgOdU9sXtVFFhYaUrS0vlVS5dIwNbYAugH_47uAfCA3QC6PvvjONgjhMQM8RKUfWqWE79Ox_eFruYScn6q28K/s3373/IMG_8392.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2266" data-original-width="3373" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSnre9IsK6EJ1T-rGqfY6XzqQGTQ-NxTnfaOQ6xpEOWxpLMZaMepVAqqfaBSkHIdjFE55awo_ku7kzZTFw5iZucenhLv6wBH9J2hLgOdU9sXtVFFhYaUrS0vlVS5dIwNbYAugH_47uAfCA3QC6PvvjONgjhMQM8RKUfWqWE79Ox_eFruYScn6q28K/w319-h214/IMG_8392.HEIC" width="319" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<br />H and I walk into St Georges. The police station has been burnt down. The ruins look like something out of a spaghetti western. There are conflicting stories about who was responsible, with some people suggesting it was the Commissioner of Police, ensuring records didn't fall into the wrong hands. Supposedly, men in camouflage gear were seen running away.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd3EnMco3gsqzBrbHs5C6YCjnNrFUV2idszoIeTaRpXD5e2biR2iaBQ13mY5f-wlTNXPKE3dPN8DJPVHe3PPvqd6WrtgVurAE4mYpYWjoavFaht1yakclTFedc2B9TKyf1kY_0DjohbxE_NlD4w95Pmz-ihNLRRJM51qoqjxDbj4_ebV20OhN24DdQ/s3216/IMG_8393.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2074" data-original-width="3216" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd3EnMco3gsqzBrbHs5C6YCjnNrFUV2idszoIeTaRpXD5e2biR2iaBQ13mY5f-wlTNXPKE3dPN8DJPVHe3PPvqd6WrtgVurAE4mYpYWjoavFaht1yakclTFedc2B9TKyf1kY_0DjohbxE_NlD4w95Pmz-ihNLRRJM51qoqjxDbj4_ebV20OhN24DdQ/s320/IMG_8393.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>
We walk to Tanteen and chat to US and Caribbean soldiers there. One of the marines agrees to send a message to our families, who we know must be frantic. We give him their names and phone numbers and he promises they will be contacted and assured we're alive and unharmed. <b>(NOTE: this message was never delivered.)<br /></b>
<br />
We want to get our films to the outside world. It feels important. A half-baked plan sees us attempting to hitch a lift to the international airport at Point Salines, but when this isn't successful, we give up and get high instead. Life goes on.<br />
<br />
Back home, we find the local radio is broadcasting on 990, but only between 10-12am and 2-4pm. There's a statement from the Governor General. He says businesses should all reopen on Monday and everyone should report back to work as usual that morning. But people are urged to stay inside between 8.00pm and 5.00am. A sort of voluntary curfew?<br />
<br />
A 'back to normal' day. We had one of those before, exactly a week earlier - the day between the ending of curfew and the invasion. It's mindblowing how events have followed one another so fast, piling up and distorting time. So much can happen, so fast, and life can change - or end - in a blink of an eye.<br />
<br />
We've just heard! Coard and his family have been found in a house just up the road in Mt Parnassus!<br />
<br />
This is evidently true but the rambling word-of-mouth information that follows seems less convincing and we realise that we need to be careful not to take anything at face value. For example, we hear that secret plans were found in the house, proving that arrangements had been made for Russian, Cuban and Libyan troops to mass here in November. This same person tells us that Maurice disagreed about the timing of this Communist military presence and that was the root of the disagreement between him and his comrades.<br />
<br />
This just doesn't ring true. For starters, November would have been before the international airport was open, so makes little sense. And all of this - including the disagreement with Maurice - was in these 'secret papers' stored in Coard's keeping? How very convenient. And anyway, even though the seeds of suspicion have been sown and people are aware that they knew little of what was really going on behind the scenes in the country they believed they ruled, I refuse to accept the Central Committee were planning some kind of genuine military threat to the US.<br />
<br />
No. This smacks much more of standard US paranoia than the reality of the revo.<br />
<br />
And so another stage begins. In spite of those 'pockets of resistance', the bulk of the fighting is over. The battle for hearts and minds has begun in earnest. With a technique that is sometimes heavy handed and obviously 'wrong' and at other times is subtle and effective, the US propaganda machine is swinging into action. And even if we reject much of what we hear, it is enough to sow seeds of doubt and confusion into the minds of a people deeply traumatised by the events of the last ten days.<br />
<br />
Ten days! That's all it is! Ten days that have seen revolution, popular uprising, coup, slaughter and terror, curfew and repression, invasion and war. Is it any wonder that the propaganda is so effective when those it is aimed at are so deeply traumatised?<br />
<br />
2.30pm - we tune into the new radio station on 990. <span style="font-style: italic;">This is Spice Island Radio, broadcasting from Barbados. We will tell you the truth!<br />
<br />
</span>We cautiously welcome one piece of news: twelve reporters are now being allowed in. They are coming via a four hour helicopter trip and have pledged to share their findings with other journalists.<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>It feels like a small sign that things are moving forwards and won't continue like this for ever.<br />
<br />
We're about to<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>listen to a statement by the Governor General but lose the radio signal. Damn! It doesn't help to know that his house is just up the road from us!<br />
<br />
L comes back from Grand Anse having been told the beach is mined and no one can go on it.<br />
<br />
And it's still not over. In the evening I count seven jets circling overhead. As soon as it's dark, flares begin to drop on Richmond Hill and the planes switch on their searchlights. There's masses of traffic movement on the hill behind us. This continues all through the night.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Sunday 30th October</span><br />
<br />
10.00am radio 610 tells us there are Cuban troops on Carriacou!<br />
<br />
Yeah right. This suggestion is so ludicrous we dismiss it instantly. But we're beginning to see - this is how the propaganda works. The mere suggestion that the Cubans might take the opportunity to fight the US to the death on Grenadian soil is enough to make people anxious that the war will go on without end. That there could be even worse to come. And this blatant lie also helps to entrench attitudes against anything that looks remotely like Communism, which is associated directly with Coard and all the troubles. And reinforce the concept of the US as saviours ...<br />
<br />
Spice Isle Radio is even more wily and specious. In a direct appeal to any members of the PRA still fighting the announcer says that <span style="font-style: italic;">we have nothing against the soldiers personally. We only want your guns. Give them up and we will leave you alone. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">We won't insist on taking your names. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">The US soldiers might even give you food. You are hungry, aren't you? </span><br />
<br />
The final news of the day is that Hudson Austin has been captured. There are no further details yet.<br />
<br />
Today was the quietest day in Tempe since the invasion. Maybe the end of the war is in sight after all.<br />
<br />
Though we have no way of knowing what will come next to fill the vacuum.</div>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-54986491182146775702023-01-05T08:36:00.002-08:002023-01-05T08:36:32.931-08:00'Back to Normal' <span style="font-weight: bold;">Monday 31st October </span><br />
<br />
Today all shops and businesses are supposed to open as normal. But what will 'normal' be under current circumstances?<br />
<br />
We soon find out. After mentally preparing ourselves for the next stage, H, C and I go into town. As soon as we climb down from the bus in the market square, a film crew homes in on us. We're surprised, as we didn't think any international media would be around yet. But they are. And we're obviously conspicuous.<br />
<br />
The main man tells us they're from ABC TV in the US and they got to the island after a gung ho perilous journey by boat. (We later find out that this guy is a freelancer who has a reputation for launching himself into global conflicts but then coming up with material so dire it can't be used.)<br />
<br />
They interview us (I never found out if the interview was aired) but more importantly, they pay us $300 US for our first batch of films, which they promise they will send onto London after they have used them.<br />
<br />
We walk on to Cable and Wireless, but there are still no international phone calls. At S's school, the signs are still up: <span style="font-style: italic;">No Bishop. No school. No work.</span> It's a poignant reminder of just how little time has passed - it's less than two weeks since the high point of the revo (people taking matters into their own hands and releasing Maurice from house arrest) was followed so swiftly by the ultimate low point (the coup).<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoGJtqq4gj1kyx8BFJ2x9gDXqTIxu41JpWA7kD04ea8AFcw-JX9AqIYofZ9nUcvnuvUj1pX-Pk2fnQdOFHyMzsHAxipvOA_bgYlkO_ZkP-yASNbZK50fPl9-d3nI5jN8cX4Ep5c8u1tIXg61Jz2Ke3UgcPd2DPt4yFm8UjCtxInsClyulPtrtEnFmK/s3544/IMG_8385.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2317" data-original-width="3544" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoGJtqq4gj1kyx8BFJ2x9gDXqTIxu41JpWA7kD04ea8AFcw-JX9AqIYofZ9nUcvnuvUj1pX-Pk2fnQdOFHyMzsHAxipvOA_bgYlkO_ZkP-yASNbZK50fPl9-d3nI5jN8cX4Ep5c8u1tIXg61Jz2Ke3UgcPd2DPt4yFm8UjCtxInsClyulPtrtEnFmK/s320/IMG_8385.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>While we're stocking up on fresh produce at the market, trucks bristling with GIs are coming down Market Hill. The brakes fail on one of them and it slews into a wall. The soldiers, not knowing the cause, leap from the truck, guns at the ready. A ripple of panic spreads through the square as people realise how volatile the situation still is and how easily it could descend again into violence and chaos.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKAsA148IHNWQFvzg_tyKgV0omlqxFQBvnbZ4YpThFtnrW5NEnmg1H9SZEbQAU2tuiJMGqQeY7epiZYDGsdT3S08DPM4Sqjl8gLDYg9A5QK7riU9x2GY8kepMhFCGAeJEntcOXhZ_i4SqNM6kNiB6KZk4Hg1srKcM6DFhy_xOVqRnst7xSYw8tn0ua/s3212/IMG_8386.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2084" data-original-width="3212" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKAsA148IHNWQFvzg_tyKgV0omlqxFQBvnbZ4YpThFtnrW5NEnmg1H9SZEbQAU2tuiJMGqQeY7epiZYDGsdT3S08DPM4Sqjl8gLDYg9A5QK7riU9x2GY8kepMhFCGAeJEntcOXhZ_i4SqNM6kNiB6KZk4Hg1srKcM6DFhy_xOVqRnst7xSYw8tn0ua/s320/IMG_8386.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div>Back home, our friend N is there with her young son. At this point we realise how much of our personal experience of the war was the result of having no children of our own. In contrast, N and her kids had a terrible time. They had no food for days and spent much of the time hiding under a table.<br />
<br />
Worse still, N's brother had been an inmate at the mental hospital. When it was bombed, he escaped and made his way through the bush to her yard at Happy Hill. Unsurprisingly, by the time he arrived he was crazier than ever. N went to the mental hospital today to ask for help and saw at least ten bodies banked up against the wall and more rotting in the bush and cane fields.<br />
<br />
At about 3.30pm, we find the current is back on at last. H and I go to the Blue Danube for bread and find it well-stocked. On our way back, we see a sack lying in the road with bullets spilling from it. Feeling unable to ignore it, we stop a truck of Caribbean soldiers and point it out to them. At the Coke factory, we're stopped by GIs who are searching vehicles and bags.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Tuesday 1st November </span><br />
<br />
The day starts with L and I having a huge argument. We're all still so stressed and traumatised, it's inevitable that this tension often spills over.<br />
<br />
H and I go into St Georges to try to get gas. Town is crawling with soldiers and journalists, which is a new development. After a struggle, we manage to exchange our empty canister for a full one but are unable to get the new regulator we need for the cooker, so we still won't be able to use it.<br />
<br />
This is a petty irritation compared to what happens next. We've suddenly panicked about the information we gave about our political background when we were hoping to set up the mobile library. We had gone into minute detail at the time, delighting in being able to lay all our radical cards on the revo table. Now we're terrified about who may have access to those files.<br />
<br />
We go along to the Ministry of National Mobilisation but we're told the guy we originally saw is out of the country and there's no one in charge. So where are the files? Are they still there lying on a desk or in a drawer? Or were they moved out - maybe to Butler House? In which case, were they destroyed? Or are they even now being read by the CIA...?<br />
<br />
As we make our way back home, we come across a road block at Springs and Belmont. We're told there is still fighting there. Spice Isle Radio confirms that there are still people resisting in the hills. We're also told again to stay inside from 8.00pm to 5.00am and for the first time since the invasion, this is described as a curfew.<br />
<br />
And here's a weird one. It's announced that the PRA have three days in which to give up, after which they will be treated as deserters. Now what does that mean? What's the difference between being enemy soldiers and deserters? The suggestion seems to be that no prisoners will be taken after the deadline - instead, anyone captured will be executed.<br />
<br />
So we've had a 'back to normal' day - just like after the original curfew. <br />
And now we have a curfew - just like the original one. <br />
And they're implying there will be executions. <br />
<br />
We're beginning to question just how much things have changed.<br />
<br />
Oh - and the US have admitted to their mistake in bombing the mental hospital.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Wednesday 2nd November </span><br />
<br />
If you see the events of the last few weeks as a disease, we seem to have moved from an acute phase to a chronic one. And just like a physical illness, this stage has its own hideous characteristics.<br />
<br />
H and I decide to try our luck at the Ministry of National Mobilisation again, hoping to track down our files. We're greeted by a stomach-churning sight. A GI is relaxing on the balcony, his feet up. The building has been taken over - by Psyops. Psychological Operations. Clinging onto a fragile thread of hope, we go to the old Ministry of Education. Maybe our files were transferred there? Predictably, this turns out to be a vain hope.<br />
<br />
So what are the implications? If they have got hold of our info, will they come to pick us up? Interrogate us? Forcibly remove us from the country? This last seems the most appalling possibility and we talk about them having to drag us onto the plane kicking and screaming.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, the information may have been destroyed or misplaced. We have no way of knowing...<br />
<br />
We walk to Queen's Park but there's nothing much new happening there. At Tempe Junction, we're stopped by paratroopers from the 82nd Airborne. There's a Russian tank up the road on fire with 17 gallons of gas and 200 rounds of live ammunition on board. While we wait for the fire to be put out, the paras chat to us quite amiably. Another has the inevitable '<span style="font-style: italic;">Better Dead than Red</span>' slogan stenciled on his helmet.<br />
<br />
They tell us Hudson Austin was found at St Paul's and that lists were found at a '<span style="font-style: italic;">house of the People's Rebellious Group or whatever they're called</span>'. They also say that they are leaving on Saturday but will be replaced. They reckon the troops are '<span style="font-style: italic;">here to stay</span>'.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, there are still no international phone calls, commercial flights or post. And Spice Isle Radio announces a State of Emergency: no torches, drums, noise or firearms. Punishment will be $500 fine or six months in prison or both. The list of things forbidden is eclectic enough to be unsettling and maintain heightened levels of anxiety. Firearms you can understand, but torches? Drums? And just how much noise is too much?<br />
<br />
Yes. This is 'normal'.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow won't be. We're going to go to the crazy house with N...</div>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-3435214652729887982023-01-05T08:36:00.001-08:002023-01-05T08:36:20.915-08:00The Lunatics are Taking Over the Asylum<span style="font-weight: bold;">Thursday 3rd November</span><div><b><br /></b>
In the morning, N comes round and H, C and I go with her to the Governor General's residence to see if we can find a way to get a message home. It's over a week since the invasion and ten days since we were last able to phone. We're very aware of the dreadful state our families and friends must be in, imagining what's happening to us and with no means of finding out if we're safe.<br />
<br />
A press conference has been scheduled and the area is buzzing with journalists and film crews, including the BBC and ITN.<br />
<br />
We spot the guy who bought our first films from us. He's reading a book by a freelance journalist who covered the Vietnam war. Having heard that this guy is drawn to conflicts, taking appalling risks to get to the world's hottest hotspots, but then coming up with such crap material it can't be used, I find his choice of reading matter hilarious and burst out laughing. It seems we all have these self images that determine the parts we play, but his is the ultimate cliche. Unsurprisingly, he's not amused by my hysteria.<br />
<br />
From there, H, N and I try to hitch to Birch Grove, where we hope to get some fresh produce, but when we can't get a ride we walk instead to Mt Parnassus and from there to Richmond Hill. The plan is to see again if it's possible to get any help for N's brother who had been an inmate in the mental hospital and escaped when it was bombed by the Americans on the first day of the war.<br />
<br />
Richmond Hill. Scene of so much of the drama of these last days and weeks. Here we see the house where Maurice was kept under house arrest and freed by the people on 19th October.<br />
<br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vxxUL3xhddDWa_9kjQLorPzFTG7oU9sB1OE1rr5isB-SVx6_3uW4FLWE5rLkOIgKviz-grjDAWyUnvbQDIiVr24Vouhw7LeGOEQOjYhJpRNx3DMhKWkHuneBdE2jlS8vnfrVjEnG8Jn19G-0wvXqbThRJZcqTfIB6yCp6v_PcxUdNmFlfaRtb9ky/s3466/IMG_8378.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2282" data-original-width="3466" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vxxUL3xhddDWa_9kjQLorPzFTG7oU9sB1OE1rr5isB-SVx6_3uW4FLWE5rLkOIgKviz-grjDAWyUnvbQDIiVr24Vouhw7LeGOEQOjYhJpRNx3DMhKWkHuneBdE2jlS8vnfrVjEnG8Jn19G-0wvXqbThRJZcqTfIB6yCp6v_PcxUdNmFlfaRtb9ky/s320/IMG_8378.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>A ruined PRA anti-aircraft gun stands guard at one of the fort<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHrJja24bF3YpF39lyJNGcnsVdTFaRRGKVc3avsj20j-MOI7hEKjWTpfGw4v6iKxor1EdVQYDYR_vts9g2tlLgvGXLSNtW7I_KQt894YLmaIPKbmo2QeeQub3skv5YrIw4eojzQ1kB7qGoCJpRdn5l4jcuT0z-qGdN9DLvnJ4HubxLzo1bq1WXuSgP/s3674/IMG_8379.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2311" data-original-width="3674" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHrJja24bF3YpF39lyJNGcnsVdTFaRRGKVc3avsj20j-MOI7hEKjWTpfGw4v6iKxor1EdVQYDYR_vts9g2tlLgvGXLSNtW7I_KQt894YLmaIPKbmo2QeeQub3skv5YrIw4eojzQ1kB7qGoCJpRdn5l4jcuT0z-qGdN9DLvnJ4HubxLzo1bq1WXuSgP/s320/IMG_8379.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>
And when we see the ruins of Maurice Bishop's mother's house and shop, we wonder if this was the result of one of the bombs we had watched fall on the first day of the war.<br />
<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8DqKalwibGW-pWXmziBpiRyVguPa64I1ooZAeWs_DuFP2eC0BDu7JyrzpDapihHs1g4egAwtyZhACMRuCfys_kqg5M3I4MnnmrvW_-tNf6MWaaw6VQsZPmiiQpgwL9PgJj9GMyuPoYyOzr8wApTYErONBUOUa6fxzLjvP7e3hsGuTJmUp6GTD3R5k/s3300/IMG_8380.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2319" data-original-width="3300" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8DqKalwibGW-pWXmziBpiRyVguPa64I1ooZAeWs_DuFP2eC0BDu7JyrzpDapihHs1g4egAwtyZhACMRuCfys_kqg5M3I4MnnmrvW_-tNf6MWaaw6VQsZPmiiQpgwL9PgJj9GMyuPoYyOzr8wApTYErONBUOUa6fxzLjvP7e3hsGuTJmUp6GTD3R5k/s320/IMG_8380.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>But far worse than any of this, is the scene awaiting us at the crazy house.<br />
<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ahaPF0qGmI0nPAyQR6KSBdNoQ7LfciOA5hI99Wi_tEYpufSV0VvcCkC2iIGomi5_3566VQSZ5qwSGk-T7fCmwKrUq1b2sNT4zCqtkIloABvKTuw0HpOuLJiB_mfMqgWE0N9UosX5twuEDTRlFbiAMJ3Qc34SYK8V4B0PsvJY1fzG95XzaRZBwXsS/s3305/IMG_8382.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2174" data-original-width="3305" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ahaPF0qGmI0nPAyQR6KSBdNoQ7LfciOA5hI99Wi_tEYpufSV0VvcCkC2iIGomi5_3566VQSZ5qwSGk-T7fCmwKrUq1b2sNT4zCqtkIloABvKTuw0HpOuLJiB_mfMqgWE0N9UosX5twuEDTRlFbiAMJ3Qc34SYK8V4B0PsvJY1fzG95XzaRZBwXsS/s320/IMG_8382.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>It's an image plucked straight from a nightmare, but it's the smell we notice first. A dense fug of disinfectant, layered over but not diminishing a sickly sweet stench that sticks in your mouth and throat. Without asking, we all know what this is. It's been ten days since the bomb was dropped on the hospital. Ten days in the sweltering sub-tropical heat.<br />
<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkmtq4VGNMIzCaCe3PBu_7IMyg1zAW_VUFOszFylkJsRJ-7dCIFXTSWjOW9ZVwy9v1Y8t9bAYAH6WAfbHTyUsHji7z2xx9rSaU2io7uUTtoMh_dLVb027UDgEIGQ3u6M2AUwaReKzTuXEx_lnLxbfbxFVhXpZgV0eEM7it2vXUdhRTR9gewvTabLqE/s3313/IMG_8383.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2110" data-original-width="3313" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkmtq4VGNMIzCaCe3PBu_7IMyg1zAW_VUFOszFylkJsRJ-7dCIFXTSWjOW9ZVwy9v1Y8t9bAYAH6WAfbHTyUsHji7z2xx9rSaU2io7uUTtoMh_dLVb027UDgEIGQ3u6M2AUwaReKzTuXEx_lnLxbfbxFVhXpZgV0eEM7it2vXUdhRTR9gewvTabLqE/s320/IMG_8383.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Gulping and silent, we climb some stairs and turn a corner and see confirmation of what we have already assumed. The wards are decimated, twisted and mangled beds sprouting from the wreckage. A small group of men, their mouths and noses covered by masks, are working to bring out more bodies buried in the ruins.<br />
<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvfZIdYCXRoGQSDjkjB7zUlJB1WNcvQUMhaibPhpKPUHxA-qL53vZnQGLW2i-MKuNQ4qSyTarQ5pJ3zFskprJK3wYzXgz8hkI4DQdQNCN-OQv8_eKcIR149LX-hO2NmkZt8OGPtLyKfmEjmcwdxkyIm6Iw5RSwQ7Rz086oS6CJ1eQ4fvxou5E95tep/s3639/IMG_8384.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2426" data-original-width="3639" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvfZIdYCXRoGQSDjkjB7zUlJB1WNcvQUMhaibPhpKPUHxA-qL53vZnQGLW2i-MKuNQ4qSyTarQ5pJ3zFskprJK3wYzXgz8hkI4DQdQNCN-OQv8_eKcIR149LX-hO2NmkZt8OGPtLyKfmEjmcwdxkyIm6Iw5RSwQ7Rz086oS6CJ1eQ4fvxou5E95tep/s320/IMG_8384.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>We don't stay long. It's clear there's no one here who can help us with N's brother and we've seen enough to give us fodder for nightmares for years to come. As we turn to go back down the stairs, a journalist is coming up in the opposite direction. He glances at our cameras and assumes we must be colleagues and kindred spirits.<br />
<br />
'Anything good happening up there?' he asks.<br />
I gawp at him in horror.<br />
'They're bringing out more bodies,' I reply, naively thinking this information will shame him into a reaction.<br />
'Great,' he says and pushes past, his ghoulish enthusiasm evident.<br />
<br />
I'm too busy gagging to think up a suitably withering response.<br />
<br />
We head back to the Governor General's. This time we manage to speak to a secretary from a phone at the gate. She gives us another number for the GG's PA. It's all very frustrating and we still can't get to talk to anyone who will be able to send a message back home for us.<br />
<br />
But some parts of the outside world are determined to communicate with us. When we reach back to our yard, there's a telegram waiting for H from her sister in Zimbabwe.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Forward with resistance. Yankees go home.</span></div><br />
I reel with the implications. Just as we were feeling at our most vulnerable, terrified that we might be on the US radar, this arrives! We've been smiling sweetly and keeping a deliberately low profile and I'm really anxious this will draw unwanted attention to us. H is delighted to hear from her sister, but I'm furious with her for sending it and possibly endangering us further.<br />
<br />
And anyway, such empty slogans come nowhere near defining the complexities of Grenada's current struggle.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Friday 4th November </span><br />
<br />
We decide to check out the scene at Grand Anse. C and I go to The Limes, where many of the international workers had been living, but they've all gone. Further confirmation that we are among the very few foreigners who haven't chosen to be evacuated.<br />
<br />
From there we head for Carifta Cottages. This is the housing development where C had been staying when she first arrived in Grenada, before we found her the yard in Tempe. The place is eerie and deserted as we pick our way through the rubble. Three of the cottages have been completely demolished by direct hits and many others are badly damaged. The devastation is disorientating and it takes us some time before we can confirm that the cottage where C had stayed is one of those that has been destroyed.<br />
<br />
We stare at the ruins of her former home reeling in shock, reflecting on how different things would have been if she hadn't moved to Tempe.<br />
<br />
We walk past the American medical school which is pockmarked all over with bullet holes and then onto the beach. This is perhaps the most heartbreaking sight of all. The two miles of golden sand are crisscrossed with rolls of barbed wire and dugout trenches. The wreckage of a crashed helicopter juts out from the shallow water of the beautiful Caribbean. A palm tree has been chopped down to be used a shelter.<br />
<br />
And everywhere - <span style="font-style: italic;">everywhere</span> - is the litter of discarded brown ration packets.<br />
<br />
Back home, we hear on the news that sixteen people have been confirmed as dead at the mental hospital and sixty six are still missing. During the night, the dark sky is ripped open by phosphorescent flares.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Saturday 5th November</span><br />
<br />
We're awakened by some quick bursts of rifle fire. Is it really still not fully over yet? The amnesty announced three days ago runs out today. From this point on, any members of the PRA and militia who haven't voluntarily handed themselves over to the US soldiers at Queen's Park will be considered to be deserters and will be '<span style="font-style: italic;">treated accordingl</span>y'.<br />
<br />
Once again, we find this both confusing and chilling. How can the US treat enemy soldiers as deserters? And '<span style="font-style: italic;">treated accordingly</span>' can surely only mean execution. Is this just a scare tactic to persuade anyone still fighting to give up? And if they haven't done so now that the amnesty is over, does that mean there will be no alternative to their death?<br />
<br />
And if all this is so, the inescapable conclusion is that only now is it becoming clear that the invasion, which so many have seen as saving us from a worse fate, will in reality just mean Grenada has substituted one set of ruthless oppressors for another.<br />
<br />
There's yet another big argument at home. Now that our lives no longer seem to be at immediate risk, these battles on the home front are becoming daily occurrences. H, C and I go into St Georges and find it swarming with journalists, camera crews and soldiers.<br />
<br />
When we get back to Tempe, we find the junction has been totally transformed in our absence. It's no longer called Kaunda Square, supposedly because Kenya didn't come to Grenada's aid in the crisis. It's Ralphie Square now and we're told he was a local man who was imprisoned by the revo and died in prison - supposedly of slow poison.<br />
<br />
All the old revo symbols and slogans have been painted over and replaced by a professionally-executed wall painting.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">God bless America.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
Long live the US and Caribbean heroes of freedom.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
25th October, 1983.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
When aligned to a doctrine, prepare for the backlash.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
Airborne.</span></div><br />
We're told it was painted by local people, but it's clear that it is the work of the Americans. Part of their psyops, no doubt. But the name change to Ralphie Square shows that local people must have had input too.<br />
<br />
This new stage in the battle for hearts and minds is proving to be acutely depressing. It feels like they're trying to erase all the good memories of the revo and ensure it will always be equated in people's minds with repression and horror. They're beginning to dismantle the revo billboards too in this attempt to rewrite history.<br />
<br />
The problem is that people are still so deeply traumatised. It makes us all highly suggestible and open to manipulation and I have fears that the blatant propaganda will be effective.<br />
<br />
It's round about this time that we hear that one of the first acts of the invading forces was to alter the billboard sign at Pearls Airport. It used to say <span style="font-style: italic;">Welcome to Free Grenada</span>. The Americans covered up the word 'free'. You said it, guys.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Sunday 6th November </span><br />
<br />
According to the news, Bernard and Phyllis Coard, together with Hudson Austin and the other high profile prisoners, have been taken from the US ship where they had been held and have been handed over to the Caribbean Security Forces. They were blindfolded and handcuffed, with the men stripped to the waist and are now in individual cells at the prison.<br />
<br />
It's impossible to summon up any sympathy for them. The overwhelming perception is that they and not the US are responsible for the death of the revo and the situation we are now all in.<br />
<br />
The evening news announces that hundreds of people peacefully demonstrated today in St Georges against Coard and the others. What??? Can this be true? We've heard nothing about it. No one we know was there or saw any kind of demonstration. And anyway, there's supposed to be a state of emergency prohibiting any kind of demonstrations...<br />
<br />
And this then marks yet another new stage. One where we're told what is happening even though we know it can't be true. The effect is confusing and disorientating, once again keeping people off balance and heightening anxiety levels. We can only assume it's a deliberate tactic. Another element of so-called 'psyops'.<br />
<br />
It's just the beginning of our education into how propaganda works. So crude, but oh so effective.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-42179146478130399872023-01-05T08:36:00.000-08:002023-01-05T08:36:05.969-08:00Contact with the Outside World <br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Monday 7th November</span><br />
<br />
H, C and I go to Immigration. Our visas are about to run out and we're terrified they might not be renewed. They need to see our tickets, so we'll have to come back tomorrow. We then spend 4 hours at Cable and Wireless as the international phone lines are operating again at last. <br />
<br />
I speak to mum for the first time since the invasion and I'm blown away by her reaction. I expected her to be furious that I hadn't left after the coup and before the invasion as she'd pleaded for me to do at the time. Instead, she's too relieved to be angry. She tells me that she and dad have agreed there will be no recriminations until they hear what we have been through. She even understands when I say I'm not going to wave my passport and come home now. <br />
<br />
C talks to her parents who tell her they phoned the White House and complained to Reagan's secretary about the communications blockade! It feels very strange to know our names have been on so many official lips at the exact point we were doing everything we could to stay out of sight.<br />
<br />
We meet A, an English woman who we had met once back in the UK. She has been living in Grenville, on the other side of the island. She comes home with us and tells us her horrific story of the war spent with a group of people in Hibiscus Hotel at Grand Anse. Her tale includes the following:<br />
<ul><li>A wounded PRA soldier joined them on the first day of the invasion. One of the others was fearful that his presence would endanger them all and insisted he leave. He is taken to Carifta Cottages.<br />
</li>
<li>On the Wednesday, they see the US vanguard for the ground forces: GIs disguised as medical students.</li>
<li>After heavy fighting, they're joined by a woman who has been shot in the head and a man with a bullet wound in his leg. They have come from Carifta Cottages and tell A and the others that the PRA soldier they sent away earlier has been killed in the battle.</li>
<li>A hysterical and terrified Cuban airport worker joins them briefly. He tells them the fighter jets mowed down the Cubans, who were frantically waving white flags on the runway.</li>
<li>A had initially decided to evacuate. She got as far as the runway at Point Salines before changing her mind. She'd had to sign a form saying that she would repay the US government within 60 days for the costs of flying her out and her passport would be marked to that effect.</li>
</ul>Other news: <br />
<ul><li>While we were out a representative from the Barbadian High Commission apparently came to see us.</li>
<li>A mass grave has been found at Point Salines according to foreign news broadcasts who say they are quoting a White House source. There are mentions of about 150 bodies, including possibly Maurice's. Spice Isle radio denies this. We ask the US troops but they all say they know nothing.</li>
</ul><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tuesday 8th November</span><br />
<br />
Immigration grant us a further 3 months stay with no questions asked. <br />
Curfew has been lifted until midnight. <br />
P tells us a grave with 4 very mashed up unidentifiable bodies has been found at Calivigny. <br />
We hear the troops will be staying longer than expected. <br />
During the day, soldiers come and search round the outside of the house, saying they're looking for hidden weapons.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSkPyxgavamQdiqdM-RBRBp27_jQCucgAIU1_0b56gX9r77nfBeH6ZDPgs4HREKsWqYBatArJvxeW64A2C4qs-tGG9-N95wxoRiW-sBk3HmSv6EJ05-gtUB7rP7GsHLA9ozZ2bj5MVuBsgzEndKy9lv0O1F4a00IwHCvEeVoT3dXQ45Ciozdnhw_Sa/s3016/IMG_8096.heic" referrerpolicy="origin" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3016" data-original-width="2044" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSkPyxgavamQdiqdM-RBRBp27_jQCucgAIU1_0b56gX9r77nfBeH6ZDPgs4HREKsWqYBatArJvxeW64A2C4qs-tGG9-N95wxoRiW-sBk3HmSv6EJ05-gtUB7rP7GsHLA9ozZ2bj5MVuBsgzEndKy9lv0O1F4a00IwHCvEeVoT3dXQ45Ciozdnhw_Sa/s320/IMG_8096.heic" width="217" /></a></div><br /><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Wednesday 9th November</span><br />
<br />
A guy comes round with a load of t-shirts. On the back is the slogan:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">1984 - Year of the International Airport</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">They were obviously pre-printed for next year, but now they have a new slogan on the front:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Thank you US for saving us</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">The irony and the contradictions are piling up and threaten to overwhelm us.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The Governor General announces the new interim administration.<br />
Two GIs were killed today in Grand Anse valley.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Thursday 10th November</span><br />
<br />
Lots of loud explosions - apparently they're blowing up unexploded bombs. Meanwhile, the radio says there's still fighting south of Grand Etang.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Friday 11th November</span><br />
<br />
Finally, we register with the British High Commission. He says he's relieved to meet us at last. Our names have obviously been ringing in his ears over the past few weeks but he had no way of contacting us as we'd never registered our presence on the island.<br />
<br />
We go up to St James's Hotel where all the journalists are staying. We meet Jonathan Steele, chief foreign correspondent at the Guardian. He agrees to take our remaining films, the tapes we made from the radio and also a hand written 'War Diary' that I have been compiling from my notes for our families and friends. He will deliver these back in England to the photo agency and to a friend who will type up and distribute the diary.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Saturday 12th November</span><br />
<br />
The roadblock is back at the end of our road and all cars are being thoroughly searched.<br />
Kenrick Radix has been detained - supposedly for his own safety after the family of a schoolchild killed at the fort on the 19th October threatened him.<br />
Cuba reveals that they have received 39 bodies but that several are Grenadian and not Cuban. They ask if they can send a forensics expert to Grenada. The request is refused.<br /><b>
(NOTE: Though US and eventually Cuban casualty figures were later confirmed, there have never been any official and credible figures for Grenadian casualties, either military or civilian.)<br /></b>
<br />
Meanwhile, it's all caught up with me. I finish off writing the war diary for Jonathan Steel to deliver. The adrenalin I've been existing on for the past few weeks has drained away and the vacuum is filled with grief as I attempt to come to terms with the trauma and loss. My back and shoulders seize up and I take to my bed.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Sunday 13th November</span><br />
<br />
Jonathan Steele comes round. He tells us that over 50 foreigners have been deported. <br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">'Have they come for you yet?' </span>he asks us. <br />
Living with this kind of uncertainty on top of everything else is doing my head in.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Monday 14th November</span><br />
<br />
Out and about. <br />
Town is crawling with soldiers and the Ministry for National Mobilisation is filled with uniformed and plain clothes investigators. <br />
The Grand Anse road is being repaired by Grenadian labourers supervised by US soldiers armed with machine guns.<br />
I go to the beach alone, which at first feels like bliss but then I start to feel vulnerable. C joins me and our bags are stolen.<br />
We go back into St Georges. The wall on Lucas Street has been repainted.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">1983 - Year of Liberation.</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">We Welcome America.</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Long live Grenada.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">November continues</span><br />
<br />
I'm ill both inside and out for much of this time. At one point I pass out and poleaxe on the concrete floor, raising a huge egg-shaped lump on my temple. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile, we hear that Fort Rupert has been renamed Fort George. (Rupert Bishop was Maurice's father who was killed by Gairy's soldiers before the Revo.) The shops are broadcasting Xmas muzak and we take in the surreal sights of GIs armed to the teeth and licking ice creams. We see a demo consisting of only 4 or 5 people (!) with placards.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">God Bless President Ronald Reagan<br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
We buy a copy of a new paper, the <span style="font-style: italic;">Grenadian Voice</span>. Ironic that the revo was criticised for having a supposed stranglehold on the media when this paper is such blatant propaganda. Articles extol Reagan's 'courage' in coming to 'rescue' us in spite of opposition from the rest of the world. <span style="font-style: italic;">And all this when he has an election coming up</span>. Well yes, precisely...<br />
<br />
Life is carrying on, but there's the beginnings of a change in the air. Many of the same people who enthusiastically welcomed the invasion now want the troops to leave so that Grenada can begin to pick up the pieces and work out where to go from here. <br />
<br />
No chance. The Americans are here to stay and as this becomes more obvious, so the first signs of resentment creep in. From the US point of view, they're going to have to work hard to stay in control and the best way to do that is to cash in on people's vulnerability and convince them they are still at risk and in need of 'saving'. <br />
<br />
But the message doesn't seem to have got through to all the soldiers on the ground, some of whom can't resist throwing their weight around.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNp15sAl3q1IZHs5NJbOMgl6o06V8E5RZQCe7dOS5w4iq1rKE18WCeOTy6S_gDF4bA-5E8p2zi9H_t8Kq7h1G81pu1fNg5ngU27SdzzSQqtPxs8nryype1pGDDWStVJcQ76FP8OW9RAQrE-i5y-U1VKnUbj8BE1kSci9-lZsZ0CRKQaTIrXohqigiP/s3635/IMG_8093.HEIC" referrerpolicy="origin" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3635" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNp15sAl3q1IZHs5NJbOMgl6o06V8E5RZQCe7dOS5w4iq1rKE18WCeOTy6S_gDF4bA-5E8p2zi9H_t8Kq7h1G81pu1fNg5ngU27SdzzSQqtPxs8nryype1pGDDWStVJcQ76FP8OW9RAQrE-i5y-U1VKnUbj8BE1kSci9-lZsZ0CRKQaTIrXohqigiP/s320/IMG_8093.HEIC" width="204" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
IT'S HARD TO KNOW WHEN AND WHERE TO FINISH THESE POSTS. IN MANY WAYS, THERE IS NO END. <br />
<br />
THERE'S SO MUCH MORE I COULD TELL. <br />
<br />
<ul><li>I COULD TALK ABOUT THE DISINTEGRATING BEHAVIOUR OF THE US TROOPS. </li>
</ul><ul><li>I COULD TALK ABOUT THE SUBTLE AND NOT-SO-SUBTLE PROPAGANDA AND THE WAY THE US REWROTE GRENADIAN HISTORY, CHANGING PERCEPTIONS OF THE REVO AND THE US ROLE - WITH A LARGE DEGREE OF SUCCESS. </li>
</ul><ul><li>I COULD TALK ABOUT HOW IT FELT TRYING TO COME TO TERMS WITH LIFE UNDER OCCUPATION.</li>
</ul><ul><li>I COULD TALK ABOUT BEING HASSLED, QUESTIONED AND HARASSED BY SOLDIERS EACH TIME WE WENT OUT AND ABOUT HOW THAT DEGREE OF INTENSE VISIBILITY IMPACTED ON OUR DAILY LIVES.</li>
</ul><ul><li>I COULD TALK ABOUT THE NIGHTMARES I STARTED HAVING, STILL VIVID TODAY OVER QUARTER OF A CENTURY LATER.</li>
</ul><ul><li>I COULD TALK ABOUT COMING BACK TO THE UK THE FOLLOWING YEAR, WHEN THE REAL HORROR BEGAN FOR ME, WITH ISOLATION, ALIENATION AND POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DOMINATING EVERY WAKING MOMENT.</li>
</ul><ul><li>I COULD TALK ABOUT GOING BACK THE FOLLOWING YEAR AND SEEING THE CHANGES AND DISCOVERING THERE WAS NO LONGER A PLACE FOR ME IN POST REVO GRENADA.</li>
</ul><br />
I COULD DO ALL THAT AND MORE. AND THERE WOULD BE NO END. BUT THERE HAS TO BE.<br />
<br />
WRITING THE REVO BLOG HAS BEEN VERY PAINFUL. IT HAS ALSO MEANT THAT WORK ON MY FICTION HAS COME TO A HALT. I MISS IT. AND I MISS HAVING MY BLOG FOR OTHER RANTS AND CONVERSATIONS.<br />
<br />
SO I'VE DECIDED TO WRITE ONE MORE POST AFTER THIS ONE. THE EXPERIENCE RELAYED IN THAT POST IS ONE THAT I HOPE WILL ILLUSTRATE MANY OF THE POINTS RAISED ABOVE. <br />
<br />
AFTER THAT I WILL COPY AND PASTE THE WHOLE REVO BLOG INTO A SEPARATE BLOG WITH LINKS AND OTHER RESOURCES.<br />
<br />
AND THEN I WILL ATTEMPT TO RE-ENGAGE WITH MY PRESENT. <br />
<br />
THANKS FOR STICKING IT OUT WITH ME.</div><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7146057306568513035.post-11426450824905196832023-01-05T08:35:00.002-08:002023-01-05T08:35:54.865-08:00Time to Party<span style="font-weight: bold;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Friday 25th November </span><br />
<br />
The curfew has been lifted! For the first time in well over a month, we're free to move round at any time of day and night. And to mark the occasion, we've heard that Love Boat will be open tonight.<br />
<br />
Love Boat is an open air disco between St Georges and Grand Anse with a jetty that juts out into the marina. Friday night parties there used to be the highlight of the week, but it's been a very long time since the last one. Nothing's going to stop us being there tonight.<br />
<br />
Late in the evening at the usual time, C, W and I set off, walking up the hill. Before long a jeep stops with three US soldiers on board. They tell us they had only intended to go as far as St Paul's, but say it's not safe for us to be out after dark. They insist on taking us all the way to Love Boat and we're not about to object.<br />
<br />
We can't decide whether they're being over-cautious, and maybe they don't know what's 'out there' any more than we do. On the other hand, it's possible they've been told to keep people's anxiety cranked up to the max. But they seem friendly enough and we're glad of the lift.<br />
<br />
The instant we arrive at Love Boat it's clear this party is going to be like no other we've attended before. For starters, the place is crawling with GIs, mingling with the Grenadians at the bar and on the dance floor. Some appear to be off-duty but most are in uniform and fully armed with automatic machine guns slung over their shoulders.<br />
<br />
What's really freaky though is that many of them appear to be completely off their heads. It looks like they're tripping. I don't know what they're on, but I've never seen anyone in Grenada behaving in this way, so I presume they've brought whatever it is with them. Several are on the dance floor, but you can't call their movements 'dancing'. They weave in and out, staggering and losing balance, crashing into the local people attempting to enjoy a 'normal' night out at Love Boat. One is watching his hand move in front of his eyes with intense concentration as if it has a life if its own, independent of his control.<br />
<br />
W and C have moved off somewhere while I stand and watch, appalled. You don't have to be a genius to see the potential for disaster in so many heavily armed men, drugged up to the eyeballs, in among the civilian population at a party with loud music and flashing lights. It will only take one to freak out and fire his gun...<br />
<br />
Gulping, my head swimming with the awful possibilities, I realise I won't be enjoying Love Boat tonight in my usual way, eyes closed, immersing myself in the rhythms and the cool vibes. Instead, I head over to the edge of the party and sit on the railing, my back to the marina and my feet up on the bench, attempting to observe from a distance.<br />
<br />
I'm only there for a few short minutes when I'm approached by a GI. He's in uniform, with his gun held loosely over his shoulder. He's also one of the ones who's off his face. Stationing himself directly in front of me, he effectively blocks off my exit, leans forward and leers into my face from a distance of about four inches. I draw back but behind me is open air dropping into the sea below. With no choice, I look into his eyes, the pupils massive, the whites bloodshot.<br />
<br />
Then he begins to speak while rolling his eyes and licking his lips suggestively. His words seem to be stumbling out at slow speed, slurred in a Southern drawl, so that he sounds like a Stepford Wife. I can feel his breath on my face, warm and cloying. I look round, but can see no escape. I'm trapped.<br />
<br />
After a while, a look of mild surprise comes over his face, as though he's just thought of something really crucial.<br />
<br />
'<span style="font-style: italic;">Oh</span>,' he exclaims. '<span style="font-style: italic;">How rude of me. Ah've been talkin' to yo' all this tahme an' ah haven't even tol' you mah name. It's Lydon</span>.'<br />
<br />
I nod in distracted acknowledgment but don't give him my own name. He carries on rambling as before for a few minutes, then the same look comes over his face.<br />
<br />
'<span style="font-style: italic;">Oh</span>,' he slurs again. '<span style="font-style: italic;">How rude of me. Ah've been talkin' to yo' all this tahme an' ah haven't even tol' you mah name. It's Lydon</span>.'<br />
<br />
This is too freaky. Too surreal. I feel like I'm stuck in some kind of time warp. If I don't get away, I'll be condemned to spend eternity listening to this guy repeat himself over and over, his breath hot in my face, his eyes glazed and shallow. I have to get away. Mumbling an apology, I tell him I have seen some friends I need to check and climbing down from my perch, I push past him.<br />
<br />
But where to go now? There's no sign of C and W and the dance floor is still occupied by contorted and staggering men in uniform, cavorting among the locals attempting to party Grenadian-style. Aware of the pressing need to get away from Lydon, I make my way to the jetty.<br />
<br />
This turns out to be a mistake. The jetty is usually my favorite place to chill out. It's where people go to be surrounded by the lapping seas and sweet air, to relax and rap and smoke. Not tonight though. The soldiers are there too, but these ones are clearly on duty and appear to be sober. Their rifles are not slung over their shoulders, but are in their hands, at the ready. They circle round the local people, staring and hostile.<br />
<br />
Undeterred, people carry on smoking and chilling. <span style="font-style: italic;">It's a party. This is what they always do at a party. </span> The soldiers seem to feel this behavior is a challenge to their authority. <span style="font-style: italic;">Why aren't these people intimidated?</span> Abruptly, their own behavior changes to rise to the assumed challenge. They begin to search people, confiscating their weed and even snatching spliffs from people's fingers.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, people begin to complain and this polarises things even further. The soldiers become angry. One of them points his gun into the air and cocks it. The Grenadians still refuse to be intimidated and argue with the soldiers.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">'You came to save us,' </span>they say. <span style="font-style: italic;">'Well, you've done that now, so you can go away again</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">This isn't your country, it's ours. You can't tell us what to do here.'</span><br />
<br />
I'm really scared now. Any minute, this is going to kick off and there's going to be bloodshed. Maybe even slaughter. I look at the soldiers wheeling round the dance floor, off their faces and armed to the teeth, and then look again at the scene unfolding on the jetty.<br />
<br />
As if things aren't bad enough, another threat is thrown into the mix.<br />
<br />
Out at sea, there's a warship. As I stand on the jetty, wondering which of the groups of soldiers at Love Boat provides the biggest threat, searchlights from the warship begin to sweep across the party. I'm convinced now that there's going to be carnage. Can't see how it can be avoided. I plan my escape route. When the firing starts, I will jump down from the jetty into the sea and cling on underneath.<br />
<br />
We came out tonight for fun. A chance to relax and socialise. To attempt to establish a shred of normality. Not one single element of this night is turning out to be fun.<br />
<br />
With a surge of relief, I spot C and W and head straight for them. Their fears are the same as mine and we agree to head back home. Out in the car park, the prostitutes are plying a busy trade in the shadows at the side.<br />
<br />
We're approached by three soldiers, who offer us a lift, telling us the roads aren't safe for us to be out late at night. Remembering the friendly GIs who gave us a lift earlier, we think this will be the best option. We just want to get home as quickly as possible and begin to walk behind them to their waiting jeep.<br />
<br />
W has been walking a little ahead of us, closer to the soldiers. With no warning, he wheels round and grabs me and C, pulling us away.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">'It's OK,' </span>he says.<span style="font-style: italic;"> 'We've changed our minds. We'll walk after all.'</span><br />
<br />
The soldiers look furious, but C and I are just confused. As we move away, W tells us he overheard the soldiers muttering to each other.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">'A ride for a f*ck,' </span>one of them said. <span style="font-style: italic;">'Get him to ride in the front. The women in the back.'</span><br />
<br />
It's clear we've had a narrow escape and we're very shaken. Trouble is, we still have to get home and now we have no trouble believing it's not safe for us to be out, though the danger doesn't come from the source the Americans might suggest.<br />
<br />
We begin to walk and we haven't got far when a car draws up beside us. The driver is a local businessman and W recognises him.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">'Come into the light,' </span>the man shouts at us<span style="font-style: italic;">. 'Let me see your faces. What are you doing out on the road? Are you mad? Don't you know it's not safe?'</span><br />
<br />
Miserable and shaky, we tell him that since curfew has been lifted and Love Boat is open, it never occurred to us not to go. Still paranoid and twitchy, the man shakes his head in frustration at our naivety.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">'I can't let you walk,'</span> he says. <span style="font-style: italic;">'I have to give you a ride. But I don't want no innocent jail...'</span><br />
<br />
Even though he's going into town, he insists on going out of his way to drive us home. Feeling guilty at our apparent stupidity in going out, we accept gratefully, W getting into the passenger seat and C and I climbing into the back.<br />
<br />
Nearly home now, but the night is still not over. As we come down the hill into Tempe, there are two jeeps at the crossroads by the Coke factory. In the beams from our headlights, we can see the machine gun mounted on one, pointing towards us. The soldiers leap into the road, flagging down the car and waving their guns.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">'Stay in the car! Stay in the car!' </span>they shout, running over to us.<br />
<br />
Confused and panicky, W opens his door and starts to get out. C and I shriek at him to stay put and pull him back in. The soldiers surround us, all of them shouting at once. Our heads whip round trying to work out what they are telling us do.<br />
<br />
It's certainly not the first time I've been surrounded by men pointing guns directly at me during these past weeks. There was the time when I broke curfew with a knife in my bag and was stopped by the PRA. And many times since the invasion we've been stopped, questioned and sometimes searched while out and about.<br />
<br />
But this is the time I feel the most frightened, without a doubt. The hideous scenes back at Love Boat fresh in our minds, the narrow escape earlier, the darkness, the shouting, the confusion - all add together to make this feel the most volatile and terrifying situation we have yet experienced.<br />
<br />
The soldiers direct all their questions at the driver, demanding his name, to see his driving license or passport, checking his number plate. He stammers his responses and I try to interject, telling them he was only there at all because he had been kind enough to offer us a lift. They yell at me to shut up and continue to interrogate him while keeping us all huddled and trembling in the car.<br />
<br />
After a while, they allow W, C and I to get out. They barely glance at us and ask us no questions at all, still focusing exclusively on our poor benefactor. We're summarily dismissed but we're consumed with guilt that the driver had been able to predict how dangerous it was to be out on the dark streets, yet in spite of his misgivings he had put our needs before his own and was now paying the price, while we were being allowed to walk away.<br />
<br />
Again we attempt to explain the driver would never have been there if it wasn't for his kindness to us, but they shout at us and wave their guns again, warning of the consequences of not leaving immediately.<br />
<br />
What choice did we have? I never did find out what happened to the driver or why they were particularly interested in him. I hope he made it through all right and didn't live to regret his selfless gesture.<br />
<br />
And so later that night I lie in bed and think back over what has happened on this first 24 hours without a curfew. I've learned a very hard lesson today. No matter how hard things have been, never assume the worst is behind you.<br />
<br />
AND SO I'VE REACHED THE END OF THE REVO BLOG, SIX MONTHS AFTER I EMBARKED ON THIS EPIC JOURNEY INTO THE PAST. I CHOSE TO FINISH WITH THE DAY RECOUNTED ABOVE AS IT SEEMS TO EXEMPLIFY LIFE UNDER OCCUPATION.<br />
<br />
AND THOUGH IT'S TRUE THAT THERE WAS WORSE TO COME IN SOME WAYS, I DON'T WANT TO FINISH ON SUCH A DOWN NOTE. <br />
<br />
BECAUSE IT'S ALSO TRUE THAT I WILL ALWAYS BE SUPREMELY GRATEFUL FOR THE INTENSE AND MAGICAL HIGHS I EXPERIENCED IN THOSE EARLY DAYS OF THE REVO. THE HOPE, THE OPTIMISM, THE POTENTIAL, ALL THOSE WONDERFUL POSSIBILITIES...<br />
<br />
I WAS PRIVILEGED TO HAVE WITNESSED THAT AND IN MY OWN TINY WAY, TO HAVE BEEN A MINUTE PART OF SOMETHING SO VERY SPECIAL.<br />
<br />
BUT OF COURSE, IF I HADN'T BEEN TO GRENADA IN 1982, I WOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN CAUGHT UP IN THE DEVASTATING LOSS OF THE REVO THE FOLLOWING YEAR.<br />
<br />
THESE EXPERIENCES CHANGED ME COMPLETELY. HOW COULD THEY NOT? THE SEEMINGLY BOTTOMLESS GRIEF WAS INTENSIFIED BY THE KNOWLEDGE THAT THE REVO HAD IMPLODED, DESTROYED FROM WITHIN, DAYS BEFORE THE AMERICANS SWOOPED IN, ENGAGED IN OPERATION URGENT FURY, AS THEY CALLED IT.<br />
<br />
I HOPE THE CONTEXT IN WHICH SO MANY GRENADIANS INITIALLY WELCOMED THE INVADERS AS A PREFERABLE ALTERNATIVE TO CIVIL WAR IS CLEAR. AT THE POINT AT WHICH I HAVE ENDED THE REVO BLOG, IT WAS BECOMING APPARENT TO ALL THAT NOW THAT THE US HAD CONTROL, THEY WERE NOT GOING TO RELINQUISH IT. <br />
<br />
THIS HERALDED A NEW STAGE IN GRENADA'S HISTORY. THE INSIDIOUS PROPAGANDA TOOK MANY FORMS. RUMOURS WERE STARTED AND SPREAD LIKE FOREST FIRES ACROSS THE ISLAND. NO ONE EVER KNEW THEIR SOURCE. SOME WERE SO LUDICROUS THEY COULD BE LAUGHED OFF. OTHERS SEEMED MORE PLAUSIBLE. THE MOST PERSISTENT ONES INVOLVED THE POSSIBLITY OF CUBA INVADING AND LAUNCHING A WAR WITH THE UNITED STATES ON GRENADIAN SOIL.<br />
<br />
THE OVERALL EFFECT WAS TO KEEP PEOPLE INSECURE AND OFF BALANCE, SO YOU NEVER KNEW WHAT WAS TRUE AND WHAT WAS A FICTION DESIGNED TO CREATE FEAR AND PARANOIA.<br />
<br />
AND IT WAS INCREDIBLY EFFECTIVE. C, H AND I EVENTUALLY LEFT GRENADA IN FEBRUARY 1984. WHEN I RETURNED IN SEPTEMBER 1985, IT WAS AS THOUGH THE INVASION AS I HAD EXPERIENCED IT HAD NEVER HAPPENED. THE EVENTS WERE NOW UNIVERSALLY REFERRED TO AS 'THE INTERVENTION'. <br />
<br />
THE HOUSE WHERE MAURICE BISHOP HAD BEEN RELEASED FROM HOUSE ARREST ON 19TH OCTOBER - THE DAY WHEN THE PEOPLE TOOK CONTROL OF THEIR REVO FOR A FEW BITTERSWEET HOURS - WAS NOW A HOME FOR ALCOHOLICS. A POTENTIAL SYMBOL OF LIBERATION AND POWER HAD BEEN CONVERTED INTO SOMETHING VAGUELY SHAMEFUL.<br />
<br />
AND, SADDER STILL, THE REVO ITSELF HAD BECOME ASSOCIATED IN PEOPLE'S MINDS WITH THE TRAUMA OF THE FINAL DAYS AND WITH EVERYTHING THAT WENT WRONG. <br />
<br />
FEW SEEMED TO REMEMBER THE TIME WHEN <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">STAND UP, SWEET SWEET GRENADA, STAND UP</span> HAD BEEN THE SONG ON SO MANY PROUD AND SMILING LIPS.<br />
<br />
I UNDERSTAND THAT'S CHANGING NOW AT LAST, OVER QUARTER OF A CENTURY AFTER THE DISASTROUS EVENTS RELATED IN THE BLOG. I GUESS ENOUGH TIME HAS FINALLY PASSED FOR THE WOUNDS TO HEAL AND FOR PEOPLE TO FEEL ABLE TO LOOK BACK WITH NOSTALGIA.<br />
<br />
ON 13TH MARCH 2009, THIRTY YEARS AFTER THE REVO FIRST TOOK PLACE, THERE WERE ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATIONS IN GRENADA FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE 1983.<br />
<br />
WITHOUT HOPE, THERE CAN BE NO LIFE.<br />
<br />
AS FOR ME, I HAVE NO PERSONAL REGRETS ABOUT MY HISTORY RUNNING PARALLEL TO THAT OF GRENADA IN THAT TIME. <br />
<br />
IN SPITE OF EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENED, I STILL BELIEVE IT'S BETTER TO HAVE LOVED AND LOST THAN NEVER TO HAVE LOVED AT ALL.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">THE END</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi92lMSUcYwX3ihOpxL14QvzGlJfLCpumwO_35wOKaonRnoLBMSjQlVkYDHbT-H-xVJ-pkBzbj-HRDRaf-kHlAwcHMEOaltLPnxBhUi_DHSEWtbHRi_Pvl3HriESDtwAnLtvfJgtRWJFp42tNV3yQQ7Sl_B_O6NcvXKKDsKS9G0taImXCZceu9J43KB/s6000/pexels-saikat-ghosh-10868777.jpg" referrerpolicy="origin" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6000" data-original-width="4000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi92lMSUcYwX3ihOpxL14QvzGlJfLCpumwO_35wOKaonRnoLBMSjQlVkYDHbT-H-xVJ-pkBzbj-HRDRaf-kHlAwcHMEOaltLPnxBhUi_DHSEWtbHRi_Pvl3HriESDtwAnLtvfJgtRWJFp42tNV3yQQ7Sl_B_O6NcvXKKDsKS9G0taImXCZceu9J43KB/s320/pexels-saikat-ghosh-10868777.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />Debihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09600815804658702077noreply@blogger.com