Dear Editor,
“I see a woman on bended knee
Cutting cane for her family
I see men at the waterside
Casting nets at the surging tide…”
It was real then, and so still very real today, when no such thing should be. Thank you, Harry.
Harry Belafonte was a prince among coloured men; men that look like me. A heroic figure of rare and raw stature. Like the impossible dreamer that he was all his life, and not just in song, he ran where the brave would shrink from going. Yes, he marched into the gates of hell for the righteous cause of his people. Black Americans. Black West Indians. The Black people by its widest definition, the broadest colouration that could be attached. Lord, give me the heart to write what this giant of a man sang in such rhythmic, pulsating, enchanting lines about a place long trampled upon by the feet of invaders and conquerors for gold, then tobacco, then the sweet richness of sugar.
It will be as he sang: “Where my people toiled since time begun.” Others took the easier, safer road. Not Harry. He was one of the last of those politically incorrect, unseemly, untimely, uncivil, unwelcomed, and unstoppable voices and hearts, who dared to say: this is wrong, and let it be damned. It would be a source of great personal joy to encounter a few with the same indomitable spirit and will along the way over here; on this mainland that is so insular and singular in its individual docility, its national fragility.
The tireless toiling at the thankless was the life Harry Belafonte embraced for himself. It was cherished, one he would not exchange for all the ballrooms and cocktails and civilized conversations. The man was a true warrior, and to the marrow. In song and the strongness of his ever-brimming passions and convictions, he was torch singer to the bitter experiences of the underdogs; and a torch bearer for the poor, the voiceless, the downtrodden, the lost, the lonely of hope, and the ones empty of sinew, faith.
It would be remarkable, a real game changer, if we could we have a small handful of Guyanese here who would be proud to bear that load. Only those few would make a difference, of that, I am sure. Most grievously, even those few, that small, cupped hand, Guyana cannot find among its sons and daughters. Regrettably Harry, the day has come, but there will still be singing of those calypso songs so loved. They have them in the singer’s and fighter’s arcadia where headed. This is less of a Jamaica farewell, and more of a Guyanese one. So long, and thanks for the songs, and the life of courage lived in exemplary fashion. Today, the Island in the Sun is a little bluer, a shade dimmer, slightly cooler.
Sincerely,
GHK Lall
