Free? at Last

A couple years ago, on the 24th anniversary of the October 19th, 1983, I wrote the note appended below. These last few days, reading of the release of the remaining members of the PRG who had been found guilty of the execution of Maurice Bishop, several Cabinet members and others, I remembered it and dug it out .

It’s not hard to understand why so many are still violently opposed to the release of these remaining detainees - the so-called Grenada 17. They are invariably persons who lost family and friends in the most brutal way imaginable, at the hands of a firing squad. Or whose relative might have died or been maimed jumping off the 30 - 40 foot walls of the Fort George to avoid being caught in the crossfire. There was never really any doubt about who pulled the actual triggers. The army officers who apparently did the deed were “only carrying out orders”. What has always been less clear is who, if anyone, gave the order.

Evidence given by one man, a former security officer for Bishop was apparently able to provide this specific information, and on that basis, the shooters and the order-givers were sent down. Different theories persist about the events of that day and the preceding two weeks and questions remain to this day. Over the past few years, several (most) of the group have been released. With all the questions about the legality of the trial, and the soundness of the verdict, it was increasingly clear that no government was keen to keep these people imprisoned. It is said that some persons who might have been involved in the “decision to execute” were never detained and were able to re-integrate into society, leading relatively normal lives. Another irony - several of the persons advocating for their release actually suffered under their hands. The editor of a local newspaper, and the current PM were both detained under the PRG (for detained read imprisoned). At any rate the resentencing of most of the Group in 2007 paved the way for their release on 5th September 2009.

There is also the work of the Group while in prison. In any estimation, the incarceration of this generally highly educated group of people has had a very positive effect on the other prisoners. Some of the Group obtained university degrees while in prison and the educational classes they organised benefitted the prison population in no small way. They were eventually given senior and trusted roles in the prison, undertaking projects and overseeing for instance the construction of a new women’s prison. Their absence will therefore be sorely missed.

Not to imply that their position in the prison system was a comfortable one. The early days of incarceration were in maximum security conditions, in a prison several hundred years old and described by most as not fit for human habitation. Hurricane Ivan in 2004 wreaked havoc on the prison, and many inmates escaped. The Group decided to stay behind and by some accounts were instrumental in restoring some semblance of order.

Of the final seven freed recently, one was in my class in school and another, two forms ahead of me, a third was my youth group leader.

This is my recollection of that fateful day:

Today, the 19th of October 2007 is (unbelievably) 24 years since the collapse of the so-called Grenada revolution. On this day in 1983, Maurice Bishop, still charismatic and loved despite his excesses under cover of the Revolutionary government in place since 1979, was freed from house arrest at his home overlooking St George’s.

I was at home that Wednesday morning and heard the news on the grapevine. Maurice was free and he was going to town to speak to the people. My mother and I (my father thought we were crazy), joined by my cousin Beverly, went to town to catch the scene. The scene of an entrenched revolutionary government, unravelling before our eyes. An impossible thought just hours before.

In the market square. People milled, Maurice was on his way, speakers were being set up, it was almost a carnival atmosphere. I was recently returned from Uni in the UK, eager to contribute, but just a bit leery of the darker side of the ‘revo’ I had begun to experience.

Then the word came – he had gone to Fort Rupert instead. We climbed the hill to the base of the Fort, My mother, Beverly and I, amidst the throng of persons heading the same way. Again, the slightly, off-centre, carnival type of feeling, the release from the cautious living everyone had become accustomed to, careful of being branded a ‘counter’.

‘Pumphead’ – Keith Hayling – a comrade of Maurice, passed, we hailed him and chatted briefly, he worked with my mother in the same insurance company. He was in the group executed.

We stopped at the junction at the base of the last incline leading up to the Fort. A narrow, almost one-way thoroughfare, steep, passing the Presbyterian Church, and the main police HQ, up to the Fort, one of the major bases of the People’s Revolutionary Army.

We stood on the stoop of the Cooperative Bank, closed, as were all the other businesses in town, arguing about whether to proceed up the hill to the Fort. My mother, naturally curious and always eager to be in the action, as was my cousin, wanting to proceed up the hill. I counselled caution, conscious of the narrow road, the crowds, and the likelihood of some sort of uncontrollable situation…

As we talked, around the bend swung three BTRs, Russian made armoured personnel carriers, 8 wheelers, each with two engines in the rear, and amphibious. On the tops of the BTRs, young soldiers, sporting AK47s at the ready, the machine guns in the centre of the BTRs also manned.

They were heading in the direction of the hill. In their way was a small Toyota, waiting to be called by the Traffic policemen at the junction. They had to slow and actually stop. “Mash dat to f--k outa de way” shouted the soldier on the front BTR (perhaps Connie Mayers, the first to die in action), as the lead BTR picked up speed and rammed the unfortunate vehicle and it occupants to one side, crumpling it like a paper bag.

They continued up the hill, the three BTRs, and over the roofs came the sound pop- pop –poppopoppop –pop. In my naivety, I thought, they’re shooting blanks, it’s Ok. We stood there, outside the bank, mesmerised, trying to figure out what exactly was happening, when the first person came running down the hill, and past us. That first guy was clutching his head, which was bleeding profusely.

The truth hit me, real stuff was happening, these were real bullets. I said “let’s go” and we ran back up the street, to the car, the sounds pop –pop –pop- poppoppop echoing around the town, in a surreal way. Got to the car. The streets were empty still, with everyone caught up at the Fort, in god knows whatever was happening there.

We went straight to the Friday’s house, a 10 minute drive at most. They lived on a ridge next to the prison. From there you had a complete view of the town. And the Fort. By the time we got there everything was quiet again, there were no sounds.

At about 30 minutes (?) after the main shooting, an outburst of rapid fire tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-atatatatatatatatat for what seemed like a minute. Then silence again. A flare rose from the Fort, a signal? Grenada later found out that this was the signal from the force at the Fort, that the threat had been eliminated. Maurice Bishop and seven others, shot, execution style, in the drill yard of the fort. Among them, Keith Hayling, my mother’s co-worker, and Unison Whiteman, my history teacher from secondary school.

We eventually went home, ignorant of what had actually happened on the day, until the early evening, when General Austin, head of the army, came on air to announce the untimely death of Bishop and others, and the onset of a dusk to dawn curfew, violators to ‘be shot on sight’.

Photos courtesy of www.thegrenadarevolutiononline.com copyright A.E. Wilder, photo of the BTR courtesy wikipedia