Guyana, known for its extremes, presents stark contrasts in various aspects—nature, politics, and society alike. This contrast is poignantly reflected in the treatment of children, where the duality of love and hate plays a significant role. Many Guyanese will remember experiences of being brutally disciplined in public or hearing about some school friend having experienced misplaced affection behind closed doors. These occurrences are not mere coincidences; they highlight a troubling cultural reality where our children are being constantly let down on multiple fronts. Recently, an incident where an army officer was seen whipping his son in public stirred considerable outrage on social media, reopening long-standing discussions about discipline, corporal punishment, and the often grim consequences that follow.
Responses on Facebook came in quickly, showcasing a range of feelings and observations. Numerous Guyanese shared their personal stories, detailing the physical abuse they faced in the name of discipline. For many, the term “licks” was almost a customary experience. The accounts were harrowing: “a hot spoon around my body” or “my mom would come to my school and beat me.” This tradition of physical punishment is deeply entrenched in Guyanese culture, where parents commonly see it as an inherent right to discipline their children, no matter the scenario.
Although discipline is undeniably crucial, the way it is administered is often ignored. A public beating seldom leads to or is preceded by a discussion about a child’s inappropriate behaviour or how they might improve. The act of hitting overwhelmingly dominates the correction process, sidelining any consideration of alternatives. Unfortunately, many parents turn to this harsh form of control not out of malice, but from confusion—seemingly unaware of the other constructive approaches available to them.
Disturbingly, beneath the visible violence lies an even darker reality—predators operating discreetly, often in roles we trust. These offenders are not monstrous figures from horror tales; they are familiar individuals in our communities—neighbours, relatives, leaders, including elected officials. They exploit the vulnerable, using manipulation, coercion, and control to gain access to children.
The grooming of minors, alongside sexual abuse and the chilling assaults that follow, is not an anomaly. These incidents are part of a well-established, systemic cycle—a pattern of manipulation that goes unrecognized until the damage becomes irreparable. Predators cultivate trust, first ensuring their victims feel secure before taking advantage when the timing is right. Often shrouded in a façade of respectability, these perpetrators blend into our lives while simultaneously targeting the most defenceless among us.
This ongoing cycle of abuse is profoundly tragic. The children who endure these violations suffer a double betrayal—first from a society that should shield them from such dangers, and then from a justice system that often compels victims to revisit their trauma in court to validate their experience. Consequently, the victim faces re-traumatization. This system is biased. Ultimately, the children are the ones who lose, while the predators continue their spree of terror, emboldened by a lack of repercussions. The victims—those children subjected to such terrible abuse—usually find themselves ensnared in a society that struggles to respond appropriately. When instances of abuse surface on social media or in the news, it is all too prevalent to witness the blame placed on the victim. How often have we come across posts suggesting that the child was in some way “asking for it,” or that their actions or attire somehow justify the abuse they experienced? This is a distorted mentality that shifts the anger directed at the abuser and instead towards the child.
When did we become a society so fractured that we begin to view the victim as culpable? How did we permit the offenders to operate openly, secure in the knowledge that the system will shield them, while the public continues to focus blame on the victims?
The figures surrounding child sexual abuse in Guyana are shocking. From 2022 to 2025, Stabroek News reported 44 instances of child assault, with some victims as young as three years old. These are merely the reported cases—what about the countless others that remain hidden, concealed by shame, fear, and silence? In Baramita, health professionals recorded 22 adolescent pregnancies, though it remains uncertain if these resulted from predatory actions. What is evident, however, is that our children are being targeted.
These statistics illustrate a grim reality, but they merely scratch the surface. The actual number of unreported and undiscovered cases is likely much greater. This issue is further complicated by cultural customs like child marriage, which only increase the vulnerability of these children to abuse.
The government has begun to take some steps in the right direction. The Ministry of Human Services is working to confront the issue of child abuse, and the Guyana Police Force has undergone specialized training to manage such cases. Civil society organizations such as ChildLink and Blossom are also collaborating with the government, yet these initiatives, while praiseworthy, are only the beginning. In the coming weeks, the Sexual Offences (Amendment) Act should be tabled in the National Assembly as well. The fight against child abuse extends beyond just policy changes; it demands a cultural shift—a complete transformation in our approach to child protection.
Our children embody not just innocence; they represent our future. To keep them safe, we must honour them with the dignity and respect they deserve. The allegory of Persephone, abducted from the light of the world and thrust into the underworld, reflects the plight of countless children in Guyana. These young ones are our Persephones. Their purity is ripped away by forces far beyond their understanding. In many cases, the individuals causing this harm are those they should be able to rely on.
The true struggle against these predators is not solely legal; it is fundamentally moral. It represents a fight for the essence of our society. We need to reflect: How many more Persephones will be taken before we take decisive action? How many more will endure in silence, ensnared within a system that requires them to confront their abuser directly, compelling them to relive their trauma in order for justice to prevail?
