THE PRICE OF SILENCE: WHY GUYANA’S DEMOCRATIC SOUL IS ON THE AUCTION BLOCK

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BY: Hem Kumar                               

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣

There is a dangerous lie taking hold in our national consciousness—that what is happening is fixed, inevitable, beyond challenge.

That the machinery of power, fueled by oil wealth, is too vast, too entrenched, too rewarding for those inside it to ever be meaningfully confronted. That silence is safer. That resistance is futile.

That lie must be rejected with every fibre of civic courage this nation still possesses.

What we are witnessing in Guyana today is not destiny. It is design. Cold, calculated, and executed with the kind of institutional precision that only becomes visible when you stop looking at individual incidents and start reading the pattern. The strategic deployment of oil revenues—through inflated budgets, opaque contracts, selectively distributed local content opportunities, and politically calibrated infrastructure spending—has engineered a system in which access to national wealth is no longer a right of citizenship. It is a reward for allegiance.

Loyalty is compensated. Dissent is taxed. And in that climate, fear does not need to be spoken aloud.

It circulates like oxygen—invisible, everywhere, essential to the system’s survival.
But here is what must be said plainly, without diplomatic softening or editorial hedging: the most catastrophic failure in this moment is not the behavior of those wielding power. It is the studied silence of those whose entire institutional purpose is to challenge it.

THE INSTITUTIONS THAT HAVE GONE QUIET. Let us be direct about what is missing.
Where is the Guyana Bar Association when parliamentary oversight committees fail to convene with regularity, when constitutional provisions are stretched to their limits of credibility, when the rule of law is invoked selectively to protect the powerful and punish the inconvenient? The legal profession does not exist merely to process transactions and represent private clients. It exists as a guardian of the constitutional order. When lawyers go silent as the architecture of accountability crumbles around them, they are not being professional. They are being cowardly—and that cowardice has a cost that will eventually land on their own doorsteps.

Where is the private sector—the chambers of commerce, the business associations, the captains of industry who speak eloquently about investment climate and economic diversification—when corruption distorts markets, when procurement processes reward political proximity over competence, when fair competition becomes a quaint fiction reserved for those without contracts to protect? Every business that accepts a tender it did not fairly earn, every entrepreneur who stays silent about a market rigged against them because they fear exclusion from the next opportunity, every boardroom that prioritizes access over integrity, is not merely compromising itself. It is actively financing the normalisation of a system that will, in time, consume them too.

Where are the civil society organisations and human rights activists when trafficking networks operate with the kind of visibility that suggests tolerance from those paid to suppress them? When governance standards that took decades to build are quietly dismantled in plain sight? When the most vulnerable members of this society—women, indigenous communities, migrant workers—find that the institutions meant to protect them have been hollowed out or redirected? Civil society’s power has always rested on its independence. The moment it begins calibrating its outrage to avoid offending those who fund it or control the spaces in which it operates, it ceases to be civil society. It becomes window dressing.

And where, ultimately, are the citizens themselves—the professionals, the educators, the religious leaders, the journalists, the trade unionists—who know what they are seeing but have concluded that it is not yet bad enough, or that someone else will speak first, or that speaking carries risks they are not prepared to absorb?

Silence, in this moment, is not neutrality. It is complicity. And complicity has consequences.

THE CONSEQUENCES THAT ARE ALREADY ARRIVING
We are not speaking of future hypotheticals. The consequences of institutional inaction are not coming—they are compounding in real time, and anyone paying attention can see them clearly.

The first consequence is: the death of genuine accountability. When oversight bodies do not function, when professional associations retreat into procedural irrelevance, and when citizens normalize the absence of transparency, accountability does not simply weaken—it inverts. Power becomes its own justification. Investigation becomes persecution. And those who ask legitimate questions about public funds, public contracts, and public conduct find themselves characterized as enemies of development rather than defenders of it. This is not conjecture. We have already seen this language deployed. We will see it deployed with greater aggression as the stakes of oil wealth increase.

The second consequence is :economic fragility dressed as prosperity. Oil revenue is not economic development. It is a windfall. And windfalls, history teaches us with brutal consistency, do not build resilient economies—they build dependency, inflate expectations, and, when captured by narrow political interests, create the conditions for spectacular collapse. The resource curse is not a myth. It is a documented pattern that plays out in predictable stages: initial euphoria, selective distribution, institutional capture, and then—when prices fall, when reserves thin, when the contracts dry up—a reckoning for which ordinary citizens are entirely unprepared because they were never meaningfully included in the prosperity that preceded it. If the private sector does not fight now for competitive, transparent markets, it will inherit a post-boom economy stripped of the institutional foundations needed to sustain it.

The third consequence is :the weaponization of fear as a governance tool. When people calculate that silence is safer than speech, that observation is more prudent than objection, that access requires the performance of loyalty, a society has already crossed a threshold it rarely acknowledges in the moment of crossing. Fear, once normalised, does not stay contained to politics. It migrates into professional life, into community relationships, into the way people raise their children and what ambitions they permit themselves. A nation whose citizens have learned to self-censor is a nation whose intellectual and creative capital is being systematically destroyed—not by force, but by the far more efficient mechanism of anticipatory submission.

The fourth consequence is the :erosion of democratic infrastructure that cannot simply be rebuilt by the next election. Institutions are not permanent. They are sustained by use, by defense, by the willingness of enough people in each generation to insist on their function. The judiciary, the legislature, the press, the professional associations, the civil society sector—these are not buildings. They are practices, expectations, and norms. When those practices are abandoned, when those expectations are deflated, when those norms are treated as optional, the damage is not visible in the way that a collapsed bridge is visible. But it is just as real, and just as dangerous, and far harder to repair.

The fifth, and most immediately personal consequence, is this: no one is insulated. The business owner who stayed quiet to protect a contract will find that the same system that rewarded their silence will, when it becomes convenient, redistribute their market share to someone more recently loyal. The lawyer who declined to challenge overreach will find that the legal order they failed to protect offers them diminishing protection in return. The civil society leader who softened their advocacy to preserve access will find that the access they preserved buys them less and less as power consolidates. The citizen who waited for someone else to speak will find that by the time the consequences become undeniable, the moment for effective response has already passed.

A system that conditions opportunity on obedience does not generate prosperity. It generates a hierarchy of the compliant—and hierarchies, by their nature, have very limited room at the top.

THE TRUTH THAT POWER FEARS MOST
Here is what every apparatus of concentrated power understands, even when it cannot admit it: the power of the people is greater than the people in power. Not because of any romantic notion about justice ultimately prevailing, but because of arithmetic. Because of the structural reality that no government, no matter how well-resourced, can sustain itself indefinitely against the organised, persistent, principled rejection of those it governs.

That power is not abstract. It is not poetic. It is operational.

It lives in a Bar Association that issues a public statement when the Constitution is being tested and refuses to be silenced by political pressure. It lives in a chamber of commerce that publicly names market distortions and demands transparent procurement, even when some of its members fear the response. It lives in a civil society organisation that files the report, holds the press conference, and publishes the data regardless of who finds it inconvenient. It lives in the journalist who runs the story, the religious leader who names the injustice from the pulpit, the trade unionist who refuses to trade worker dignity for institutional access, and the ordinary citizen who decides that their children’s inheritance—the inheritance of a functional democracy—is worth defending even when the personal cost is real.

This is not a call for recklessness, or for confrontation without purpose, or for the kind of performative outrage that generates heat but no light. It is a call for something far more demanding: sustained, principled, institutional responsibility.

WHAT IS REQUIRED NOW
The Bar Association must speak—not in hedged, qualified, deliberately ambiguous language designed to satisfy everyone and challenge no one, but with the clarity and force that the legal tradition demands when constitutional order is genuinely at risk.

Their silence is not neutrality. It is professional abdication.

The private sector must decide whether it is building a business community or a clientele. The distinction matters enormously. A business community defends the conditions of fair competition because it understands that rigged markets ultimately destroy the commercial vitality of everyone inside them. A clientele simply negotiates its position within a system of favour—and in doing so, surrenders the independence that gives business its social legitimacy.

Civil society and activists must reclaim their function as watchdogs, not as managed participants in a governance performance. The moment advocacy organisations begin self-censoring to protect their seat at tables controlled by those they should be scrutinising, they have ceased to perform their fundamental role. There are no neutral positions available in this environment. Choosing not to speak is itself a choice—and it will be recorded as such.

Citizens must understand, with absolute clarity, that silence today mortgages accountability tomorrow.

Every normalisation accepted, every outrage swallowed, every resignation disguised as pragmatism, narrows the space within which future challenge becomes possible. Democracies do not collapse in dramatic moments of obvious tyranny. They are surrendered incrementally, in the accumulation of small acceptances, small silences, and small retreats that individually seem manageable and collectively prove fatal.

NOTHING ABOUT THIS IS INEVITABLE — EXCEPT THE COST OF INACTION. The lie that must be rejected is not merely political. It is existential. If we accept that the current trajectory is “cast in stone,” that the oil money is too powerful, that the networks are too entrenched, that the consequences of speaking are too severe—then we have not simply lost a political argument. We have surrendered the agency that defines what a democracy actually is. We have made ourselves subjects rather than citizens. And we will have done so not under duress, but by choice.

Nothing about this moment is inevitable. The pattern can be interrupted. Institutions can be reinvigorated. Accountability can be restored. Civil courage, when enough people choose to exercise it simultaneously, becomes something that even the most entrenched systems cannot simply absorb or ignore.

But that interruption requires people—real people, in real institutions, with real professional standing—to decide that their mandate matters more than their comfort.

That the country they will leave behind matters more than the contracts they might lose today. That the judgment of history is a more serious consideration than the approval of those currently in power.

The consequences of doing nothing are not abstract. They are not distant. They are already accumulating, in the distorted markets, in the silenced institutions, in the fearful calculations, in the slow erosion of the democratic infrastructure that every generation inherits and every generation is responsible for passing on.
Those consequences will not spare the silent. They never do.

The only question that remains is not whether Guyana will pay a price for this moment—it is whether enough people will choose, while the choice is still genuinely available, to ensure that the price is not the democracy itself.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝 𝘼𝙘𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮,𝙄𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙄𝙣𝙂𝙪𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙖 𝘼𝙣𝙙𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨. — ✦—

A Dead Worker, Stolen Passports, and Silence at the Top: The EKAA HRIM Scandal Guyana Cannot Afford to Bury

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BY: Hem Kumar                               

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣

There is a man named Sekhar Chhetri who will not be going home.

He will not board a return flight to India. He will not collect the wages he was owed. He will not see the family he left behind when he travelled thousands of miles to work at a quarry carved into the hills of Batavia, Region Seven — a quarry that was commissioned with fanfare, blessed by the presence of Guyana’s Head of State, and left to operate in a remote jungle with virtually no labour oversight for years.

Sekhar Chhetri is dead. His colleagues — thirty-eight Indian nationals — sit in Georgetown demanding only three things: their passports, their unpaid wages, and a flight home.
They should not have had to beg for any of those things.
That they did — and that it took public outrage, social media exposure, and opposition pressure to force even a government response — is not merely a labour dispute. It is a national indictment.

THE ARCHITECTURE OF EXPLOITATION
Let us be precise about what has been documented, because precision matters when powerful interests prefer vagueness.
The contracts signed by workers at EKAA HRIM Earth Resources Management are not merely aggressive — they are, on multiple points, flatly illegal under Guyanese law. Workers were required to pay USD $3,000 if dismissed and USD $5,000 if they resigned or “absconded” — a term the contract applied to any worker who left the site without written employer permission. Under Guyana’s own Labour Act, mandatory financial penalties for resignation are entirely unenforceable.

These contracts do not reflect hard bargaining. They reflect a deliberate design to trap. The abuse of overtime provisions compounds this. The contracts stipulated that base salary covered 72 hours of work per week — a direct violation of the National Minimum Wage Order. Overtime compensation was denied if extra hours were worked to meet production targets or compensate for weather delays. Guyana Labour Law is unambiguous: overtime is mandatory for any work beyond standard limits, regardless of operational circumstances. EKAA HRIM did not misinterpret the law. It chose to ignore it.

Passports were confiscated. Workers reported never receiving a physical payslip. Salaries were delayed for months. Food was inadequate. Medical access was limited. One worker lost four fingers in a workplace accident under allegedly substandard occupational safety conditions. And on May 12, 2026, Sekhar Chhetri died at the quarry site.

The company’s response to his death — issuing a press statement attributing it to a heart attack while accusing social media of spreading “misleading information” — may or may not reflect the medical facts. But coming from an employer that simultaneously held workers’ passports, withheld their wages, and imposed illegal contract penalties, it carries the credibility of a confession dressed as a denial.

THIS IS NOT AN ADMINISTRATIVE MATTER — IT IS A CRIMINAL ONE
Guyana’s Combating of Trafficking in Persons Act is explicit. Any person who, for the purpose of trafficking, knowingly confiscates or possesses the passport of another person commits an offence punishable by a fine of one million dollars and up to five years’ imprisonment. The law does not provide an exception for employers who claim they held documents for “security” or “safety” reasons. There is no such exception.

Confiscating a worker’s passport is not a policy decision. It is a crime.
The Ministry of Labour’s decision to treat passport seizure, wage theft, illegal contracts, unsafe conditions, and a worker’s death as matters to be resolved through a 24-hour response deadline and dialogue with management is not proportionate to the gravity of what has occurred. Critics are correct to call it what it is: the ministry is treating a statutory criminal offence as an administrative inconvenience. That signals to every abusive employer operating in Guyana’s remote interior that the gap between the law on paper and the law in practice is wide enough to exploit indefinitely.

A joint investigation team has been mobilised — the Ministry of Labour, the Guyana Police Force, and the Trafficking in Persons Unit. That is structurally correct. But mobilisation is not accountability. The question is not whether investigators will visit Batavia. The question is whether anyone will be prosecuted.

THE SHADOW OVER THE STATE
This scandal does not exist in isolation. It exists in a specific political geography that Guyanese citizens understand even when officials refuse to name it.
The quarry at Batavia was not opened quietly. It was commissioned by President Irfaan Ali. The company’s principal, Saju Bhaskar, is a Coimbatore-based businessman who also owns Texila American University Guyana — an institution that itself recruits students from the same Indian subcontinent whose nationals now sit in Georgetown demanding only their documents and their wages.

The proximity between the country’s highest office and this employer is not incidental background detail. It is central to understanding why thirty-eight workers could be exploited for months, in some cases years, in a remote Region Seven quarry without a single labour inspection, without payslips, without functioning safety protocols, and without anyone in authority intervening until social media forced the issue into the open.

When a Head of State commissions an employer’s facility, that employer acquires something more valuable than a photograph. They acquire the reasonable expectation — whether or not it is ever explicitly granted — that the instruments of State will not move against them with urgency. The thirty-eight Indian nationals at EKAA Quarry did not invent that expectation. The pattern of non-intervention over months and years created it.

The opposition’s intervention — raising six formal demands including full wage payment, compensation for the injured worker who lost his fingers, compensation for Sekhar Chhetri’s family, and EKAA HRIM bearing all repatriation costs — performed a duty of care that the government itself abdicated. That the workers reportedly refused a private audience with the Indian High Commissioner and insisted on having the opposition leader present tells its own story. These men did not trust that a quiet, closed meeting would serve their interests. Given everything they had experienced, they were right to be cautious.

WHAT FESTERS WHEN NOTHING HAPPENS
If this scandal is managed rather than resolved — if it dissolves into a quietly closed investigation, a company that faces no prosecution, workers who are repatriated without full compensation, and a ministry statement declaring compliance going forward — the damage will be far greater than the immediate injustice to thirty-eight individuals.
Consider what normalisation produces.

Guyana is no longer a peripheral economy. It is one of the fastest-growing oil economies on the planet. Foreign capital is flowing in at historic rates. Foreign workers are following. The infrastructure of exploitation documented at Batavia — illegal contracts, passport seizure, wage theft, remote locations that discourage scrutiny — is a template that other unscrupulous operators will apply if they see it go unpunished. The message sent by impunity is always the same: this is permissible here.
Guyana’s international standing cannot absorb that message.

Human rights bodies, international labour organisations, diplomatic partners, and global financial institutions are watching how this country governs the human cost of its resource boom. The United States Department of State’s annual Trafficking in Persons Report monitors exactly this category of abuse. The International Labour Organisation tracks forced labour indicators — and passport confiscation, movement restrictions, debt bondage through punitive resignation clauses, and withheld wages are among the clearest indicators on that list.

Guyana does not need to be formally designated a trafficking haven to suffer the reputational and diplomatic consequences of a high-profile case that ends without prosecution.
India, for its part, is not a passive observer. Union Labour Minister Mansukh Mandaviya has publicly stated that his ministry is monitoring the situation and will take every possible step for the betterment of affected workers.

India and Guyana share deepening diplomatic and economic ties. The death of an Indian national under disputed circumstances, in conditions that Indian authorities are now scrutinising, is a bilateral issue with real consequences. Guyana cannot afford to have New Delhi draw conclusions about the safety of its nationals in this country based on the outcome of how this case is handled.

THE GHOST OF INDENTURSHIP
There is a history in this country that makes the EKAA HRIM scandal feel like something older and more sinister than a modern labour dispute.

Guyana was built on indentured labour. Indian workers were brought across oceans under contract terms that promised one thing and delivered another. Their passports — their papers — were held by those with power over them. They worked in remote locations. They had no effective recourse. The architecture of the indenture system was designed to make leaving more costly than staying, and to ensure that the law, when it existed at all, moved slowly enough that the powerful could act with near-impunity.

At EKAA Quarry in 2026, the passports replaced the indenture papers. The remote Cuyuni-Mazaruni quarry replaced the sugar estate. The politically connected owner replaced the colonial plantation manager. The Labour Ministry’s delayed response replaced the colonial magistrate’s indifference. The vocabulary has been modernised. The architecture has not changed enough.
Guyana fought — and continues to fight — to define itself beyond that history. Its Constitution enshrines freedom of movement. Its Labour Act protects workers. Its Trafficking in Persons legislation creates criminal accountability. These are not ornamental commitments.

They represent a deliberate decision, encoded in law, that this country will not permit the conditions of the past to reassert themselves in modern form. The question this scandal poses is simple and devastating: does the government of Guyana actually mean it?

WHAT ACCOUNTABILITY LOOKS LIKE
The steps required are not complex. They are merely politically inconvenient for those who might prefer this to disappear.

First, the investigation must culminate in prosecutorial decisions — not administrative findings. Passport confiscation is a criminal offence under Guyanese law. If the evidence, which includes workers’ own testimony and appears to be uncontested on the basic facts, confirms that documents were seized, charges must be laid. A finding that passports were “subsequently returned following ministerial intervention” is not a resolution. It is a description of a crime followed by its reversal. The commission of the crime requires its own response.

Second, all outstanding wages must be paid in full before any worker is repatriated, and EKAA HRIM must bear the full cost of repatriation for all thirty-eight workers and for the remains of Sekhar Chhetri. The family of the deceased must receive compensation. The worker who lost his fingers must receive compensation. These are not demands — they are the minimum obligations of a company that benefited from their labour while violating their rights.

Third, Guyana must establish mandatory, unannounced inspection regimes for all worksites employing foreign nationals in remote locations. The conditions at Batavia did not emerge overnight. They were built over months and years, in a location specifically chosen because its remoteness discouraged oversight. Any regulatory framework that cannot reach Batavia is not a regulatory framework — it is a suggestion.

Fourth, Parliament must be asked to account for how this was allowed to happen. The Labour Ministry’s failure to inspect, intervene, or act raises questions that deserve a formal record. A parliamentary inquiry into the ministry’s oversight of foreign worker employment in extractive industries is not political theatre. It is the legitimate exercise of democratic accountability.

Finally, the government must publicly address the question every Guyanese citizen is asking: what is the precise nature of the relationship between the President’s commissioning of this facility and the company’s subsequent operating environment? The appearance of protection is as damaging as protection itself. Silence on this question will be read as confirmation.

THE COST OF LOOKING AWAY
Guyana stands at a juncture that its oil boom has made both more consequential and more fragile than at any previous moment in its modern history. The decisions made in the coming weeks — whether charges are laid, whether workers are fully compensated, whether the investigation produces accountability or a press release — will be read not just by Guyanese citizens but by the international community that is watching this country’s governance with close, calibrated attention.

A country that cannot protect thirty-eight workers from an employer who seized their documents, denied their wages, exposed them to unsafe conditions, and returned one of them home in a coffin, has not earned the right to speak about development, transformation, and the promise of oil prosperity. Not because those things are false, but because prosperity built on the silence of the exploited is not development. It is extraction with better branding.
Sekhar Chhetri’s death must not become a footnote. His colleagues’ demands must not become a diplomatic inconvenience to be managed quietly into irrelevance.

The illegal contracts, the stolen passports, the withheld wages, the missing payslips, the amputated fingers, and the body in the quarry — these are not separate incidents. They are the documented output of a system that was permitted to operate because the political geometry around it made intervention uncomfortable.
That geometry must now be overridden by the demands of law, justice, and the reputation of a nation that has survived too much history to allow itself to repeat the worst of it.

The world is watching. More importantly, Guyana’s own people are watching — and they will remember not just what happened at Batavia, but what their government chose to do about it.

The 592 Guardian is an independent Guyanese commentary platform committed to accountability journalism and civic engagement.

“Fix Your Home First: Mandamus, Mandate, and the Unfilled Seats of Region 10”

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BY: Hem Kumar                                

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣

There is no question that the recent intervention by the Leader of the Opposition, Mr. Azruddin Mohamed, and members of the WIN parliamentary group in the matter involving 38 exploited Indian workers deserves recognition. At a time when serious allegations of labour abuse surfaced—passport confiscation, excessive working hours, coercive contractual terms, and unsafe living conditions—their presence and persistence helped bring visibility and, ultimately, some measure of relief to those affected.

Advocacy in the face of exploitation, regardless of nationality, is not only commendable but necessary. It reinforces a broader principle: that Guyana must not become a safe haven for labour abuses, whether against citizens or foreign workers. On this front, Mr. Mohamed and his colleagues demonstrated that they are capable of mobilizing attention, applying pressure, and standing on the side of justice.
However, leadership is not defined solely by moments of visibility—it is measured by consistency, responsibility, and fidelity to mandate.

Eight months after the electorate of Region 10 cast their votes, the seats won remain unfilled. This is not a peripheral issue. It is a direct affront to democratic representation. The people of Region 10, having exercised their constitutional right under Article 59 of the Constitution of Guyana— which guarantees participation in the democratic process—are still awaiting the leadership and representation they were promised.

While there are indications of administrative resistance—particularly at the level of the Regional Executive Officer—such obstacles do not absolve political leadership of responsibility. Article 13 of the Constitution emphasizes inclusionary democracy, while Article 149 protects fundamental rights, including protection from discriminatory or arbitrary denial of participation in public affairs. When elected representatives are prevented from taking their seats, these principles are not merely strained—they are potentially violated.

The legal framework provides clear and enforceable remedies, and Guyana’s own jurisprudence shows that courts have intervened where the will of the electorate is frustrated or obstructed. In electoral‑related disputes, the High Court has consistently treated the filling of seats as a matter of constitutional import. For example, in decisions dealing with nominations and the Representation of the People Act, the High Court has affirmed that the Chief Election Officer and related authorities must act in conformity with the law, and that appeals or orders of mandamus may be brought where there is unlawful delay or refusal.

More broadly, the jurisprudence in Guyana on fundamental rights and constitutional remedies confirms that a citizen or group can bring a motion under Article 153 seeking a declaration that a right has been violated and consequential orders compelling compliance. Where administrative action (or inaction) effectively denies representation, the courts have, in analogous cases, recognized that such conduct can engage the protection of fundamental rights. That precedent is not theoretical; it is operational.

In practical terms, the following remedies are, in fact, available and have been tested in similar contexts:
• An application for an order of mandamus to compel the Regional Executive Officer or any other authority to perform its statutory duties in relation to the declared results, where there is unlawful delay or refusal.
• A constitutional motion under Article 153 seeking a declaration that the prolonged failure to seat elected representatives infringes the rights of the people of Region 10 to participation and representation, and demanding consequential orders to enforce compliance.
• recourse to the Representation of the People Act, Chapter 1:03, which spells out the duty of the Chief Election Officer and related bodies to ensure that seats are properly filled in accordance with the declared results. Where there is deviation or obstruction, the courts remain the ultimate arbiter.

The uncomfortable question, therefore, is not whether there are barriers—but why those barriers have not been decisively confronted using the very legal tools and precedents that Guyana’s own jurisprudence has made available.

Mr. Mohamed has shown that he can act with urgency, that he can advocate forcefully, and that he understands the power of sustained engagement. That same intensity must now be brought to bear on the unresolved matter of Region 10. The mandate given by the people is not symbolic—it is binding.
To advocate on behalf of others, while one’s own constituents remain without representation, creates a perception that is difficult to ignore. It is not the act of advocacy that is in question—it is the imbalance in its application.
The people of Region 10 are not asking for attention; they are demanding what is already theirs by right: representation.

If leadership is to carry credibility, it must begin at home.

Mr. Mohamed has demonstrated that he can lead. The time has come for him to pursue, with equal fervor and constitutional precision, the remedies and judicial precedents available to ensure that the voices of Region 10 are finally heard, seated, and respected.

FOOTNOTE:

Legal precedents and provisions relevant to the Region 10 vacancy

1 Constitutional foundation
• The people of Region 10 derive their right to representation from Article 59 of the Constitution of the Co‑operative Republic of Guyana, which guarantees participation in the democratic process, and Article 13, which enshrines inclusionary democracy.
• Article 149 protects fundamental rights, including protection from arbitrary or discriminatory denial of participation in public affairs. Where administrative action (or inaction) effectively blocks elected representatives from taking their seats, these provisions are engaged.

2. Role of the High Court in electoral and mandamus matters
• Guyana’s High Court has repeatedly confirmed that the Chief Election Officer and related bodies must act in conformity with the Representation of the People Act, Chapter 1:03, and that appeals or orders of mandamus may be issued where there is unlawful delay or refusal.
• In electoral‑related disputes, the High Court has affirmed that seats must be filled in accordance with declared results, and that judicial review is available to ensure that the process is not undermined by administrative fiat or obstruction.

3. Constitutional remedies under Article 153
• Article 153 provides that any person whose fundamental rights have been violated may apply to the High Court for a declaration of rights and consequential orders.
• In analogous cases where the conduct of authorities has frustrated democratic participation or representation, the High Court has recognized that such conduct can engage Article 153 protections, making it possible to seek declaratory orders and enforcement of electoral outcomes.

4. Regional and appellate precedents
• In Attorney General of Guyana v Monica Thomas & Others; Bharrat Jagdeo v Monica Thomas & Others CCJ 15 (AJ) GY, the Caribbean Court of Justice addressed the scope of jurisdiction in election‑petition matters, underscoring that election‑related disputes are to be handled within strictly defined constitutional and statutory frameworks.
• In other Guyana‑based electoral‑system and nomination cases, the High Court has consistently held that the Representation of the People Act and the Constitution operate in tandem, and that where there is a failure to comply with statutory procedures, the courts may intervene to uphold the integrity of the process.

Taken together, these authorities establish that the prolonged failure to seat representatives for Region 10—where the electorate’s mandate is clear—is not merely a political inconvenience. It is a matter that falls squarely within the domain of constitutional and electoral justice, and for which remedies such as mandamus, constitutional motion, and judicial enforcement of the Representation of the People Act are available and, in fact, precedented.

Disclaimer:
The author is not a licensed attorney-at-law and this piece is not intended as legal advice. The constitutional provisions, case law references, and procedural remedies mentioned are offered for informational and advocacy purposes only, and are not a substitute for professional legal counsel. Readers are encouraged to consult a qualified legal practitioner before taking any legal action based on the information contained herein. All references to case law and constitutional texts have been used in good faith but should be independently verified in the official reports and statutes.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝 𝘼𝙘𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮,𝙄𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙄𝙣𝙂𝙪𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙖 𝘼𝙣𝙙𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨. — ✦—

The $97 Million Lie: What Mark Phillips Was Really Hiding

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BY: Staff— Writer

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣.    

There is a particular kind of political lie that deserves special contempt. Not the lie of omission, where a man stays quiet about something uncomfortable. Not the lie of spin, where facts are bent and twisted until they resemble something more convenient. No — the lie that deserves the harshest judgment is the deliberate, constructed, point-by-point denial. The kind where a man looks his country in the eye and says, with the full authority of his office: this did not happen.
That is what Prime Minister Mark Phillips did on April 7, 2026.
And when a leader lies about money — specifically about where nearly one hundred million US dollars went, and why, and to whom — the question this nation must demand an answer to is not merely whether he lied. The question is: what is he hiding?

The Anatomy of the Lie

There is a particular kind of political lie that deserves special contempt. Not the lie of omission, where a man stays quiet about something uncomfortable. Not the lie of spin, where facts are bent and twisted until they resemble something more convenient. No — the lie that deserves the harshest judgment is the deliberate, constructed, point-by-point denial. The kind where a man looks his country in the eye and says, with the full authority of his office: this did not happen.
That is what Prime Minister Mark Phillips did on April 7, 2026.
And when a leader lies about money — specifically about where nearly one hundred million US dollars went, and why, and to whom — the question this nation must demand an answer to is not merely whether he lied. The question is: what is he hiding?

When Leaders Lie About Money, They Are Hiding Something

Let us state what should be obvious but is too often left unsaid in the polite language of political commentary: when elected officials lie about the movement of public money, they are not doing so out of embarrassment. They are not doing so because the truth is mildly inconvenient. Leaders lie about money because the truth about the money leads somewhere they do not want the public to go.

The question this nation must now ask — loudly, persistently, and without apology — is where does this particular truth lead?
A US$97 million settlement, reached quietly, on a project that has already ballooned past US$2 billion, does not materialize from nowhere. Settlements of this nature do not happen without months of negotiation, without legal teams, without approvals at the highest levels of government. Someone signed off. Someone knew. Multiple someones knew. And yet the Prime Minister of this country stood before the public and said: nothing happened.

Who authorized this settlement? At what point was the President informed? Was Cabinet consulted? Were the appropriate parliamentary committees notified — as Phillips himself insisted they would be, when he declared all payments were “reported to parliament”? If that assurance was true, then parliament knew about a payment that the Prime Minister was simultaneously denying. If it was false, then parliament was also deceived. Either answer is damning.

And what precisely were the “soil stabilisation works” and “delay-related provisions” at the heart of this settlement? The Wales site has been a source of concern for engineers and observers since construction began. Soil stabilisation failures on a gas-to-energy project of this scale are not minor technical footnotes. They are red flags that go to the very foundations — literally — of whether this project is being built correctly, safely, and with the oversight that public infrastructure demands. Were the right engineers engaged? Were the right materials used? Was the original contract sum itself based on accurate, honest assessments of the ground conditions at Wales? Or was the project priced to win approval, with the real costs to be negotiated quietly, in the dark, after the cameras had moved on?

These are not paranoid questions. They are the only responsible questions to ask when US$97 million changes hands in secret, and the head of government lies about it.

A Project Built in Darkness

The Wales Gas-to-Energy project has never been clean. From its earliest days it has been wrapped in the kind of opacity that, in a country with functioning accountability institutions, would have triggered independent investigations, parliamentary inquiries, and sustained public pressure.

The project was oversold to the Guyanese people as the answer to the country’s chronic energy crisis. Cheap electricity was the promise. Energy security was the vision. These were not small promises. In a nation where power outages remain a daily reality for thousands of households and businesses, the promise of reliable, affordable electricity is not a political slogan — it is a lifeline. People built businesses around that promise. Communities organised their expectations around that timeline.

And yet, delay after delay, cost overrun after cost overrun, the project has consumed billions while delivering almost nothing to the ordinary Guyanese family still sitting in the dark. The original timeline has long since passed. The original budget has long since been breached. And now we learn that nearly one hundred million dollars more was paid out in a settlement that the Government initially denied even existed.
At what point does a pattern become a verdict?

This is not a project that hit unexpected difficulties and responded with transparency and accountability. This is a project that has operated from the beginning as though public scrutiny is an inconvenience to be managed rather than a right to be respected. Every uncomfortable question has been deflected. Every delay has been explained away. Every escalating cost has been dressed up in language designed to minimise rather than clarify.

And now, a Prime Minister caught in a lie does not resign. Does not offer a full accounting. Does not commission an independent review. He simply adjusts his language, softens his previous denial into something that might, at a distance, resemble a correction, and carries on.

The Cost of Looking Away

There will be those who say this is politics as usual. That all governments do this. That Guyana’s development requires compromise, and that the energy project, whatever its flaws, is still necessary.

These arguments are the enemies of accountability, and they should be rejected with the firmness they deserve.

The argument that “all governments lie” is not a defense of lying — it is an admission that lying has become acceptable.

And in a young democracy, sitting on oil wealth that should be transforming lives across this country, the acceptance of that standard is not pragmatism. It is surrender. It is the surrender of every Guyanese who will never know exactly how much of their national inheritance was quietly settled away, in the dark, while their Prime Minister told them nothing was happening.
The argument that the project is “still necessary” is a distraction. No one is suggesting that Guyana does not need energy infrastructure.

What is being demanded is that the money spent building that infrastructure is accounted for, honestly, in full, to the people who own it. A lie about US$97 million does not become acceptable because electricity is important. If anything, it becomes more dangerous — because it tells contractors, consultants, and all those with their hands near the public purse that the cover of “national development” is wide enough to hide almost anything.

What Must Happen Now

This nation deserves more than a quiet walk-back and a percentage figure. It deserves answers.
Parliament must demand a full accounting of the Wales Gas-to-Energy project — every contract, every amendment, every settlement, every payment. The DAAB award that triggered this US$97 million settlement must be made public in its entirety. The legal basis for the settlement, the names of those who negotiated it, and the chain of approvals that led to it must be placed before the Guyanese people.

The Prime Minister, having been caught in a deliberate public falsehood on a matter involving nearly one hundred million US dollars of public money, should not be permitted to simply move on. There must be consequences. If he was instructed to lie — if this denial came from above — then the public deserves to know that too. If it was his own decision, then the public deserves to know that just as much.

And President Irfaan Ali, who leads this Government and under whose watch this project has accumulated secret settlements, denied payments, and a Prime Minister who lied to the nation — must speak. Not through a spokesperson. Not through a carefully worded press release. Directly, fully, and with the kind of accountability that the leader of an oil-rich democracy owes to its people.

The Wales Gas-to-Energy project was supposed to light up this country. Instead, it has illuminated something far darker — a government that treats public money as its private affair, and public truth as an obstacle to be managed.

Mark Phillips lied. Ninety-seven million US dollars is missing from the honest public record of this country. And until this Government explains — fully, openly, and without the shelter of percentages and careful language — where that money went and why it was hidden, every Guyanese should treat every assurance from this administration with exactly the skepticism it has so thoroughly earned.

The light that this project promised Guyana is not the light of cheap electricity. It is the harsh, unflattering light of accountability. And it is long overdue.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣 𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝 ,𝘼𝙘𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮, 𝙄𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙄𝙣 𝙂𝙪𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙖 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨. — ✦—

Reigniting a Quiet Nation

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When Power Goes Unchecked and Opposition Goes Quiet, the Nation Must Speak for Itself

BY: Hem Kumar                               

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣

There is a dangerous silence settling over Guyana.

It is not the silence of contentment. It is not the silence of a people at peace with their government, satisfied with the direction of their country, or reassured by those who lead it. 

It is something far more troubling. It is the silence of resignation — the particular quiet that descends on a population that has begun to believe, however reluctantly, that its voice no longer carries weight.

That silence is not accidental. It is the natural consequence of two simultaneous failures: a government that has grown comfortable operating beyond scrutiny, and an opposition that has grown comfortable offering none.

Both failures are dangerous. Together, they are corrosive.

The Government: Authority Without Accountability

Democracies do not die in moments of obvious rupture. They erode — steadily, quietly, through the gradual normalisation of conduct that would once have triggered outrage.

What we are witnessing in Guyana today is not a sudden authoritarian turn. It is something more insidious: the slow, methodical expansion of executive confidence. Decisions are made with less consultation. 

Institutions are tested for their limits rather than respected for their purpose. Public disclosure is managed, not offered. Questions are deflected, not answered. And those who raise concerns are increasingly dismissed — not rebutted, but dismissed.

This is how democratic backsliding works. Not through a single dramatic act, but through accumulation. Each unchallenged overreach becomes the new baseline. Each unanswered question signals that questions need not be answered. Each institution that bends without breaking teaches power that bending is acceptable.

The oil wealth that was meant to be Guyana’s generational opportunity has instead become the political class’s most powerful instrument of control. Resource revenue creates the conditions for dependency. Dependency erodes dissent. And the erosion of dissent is precisely the environment in which authority without accountability takes root and grows.

This is not speculation. It is the observable pattern of resource-rich states across history, across continents, across political systems. Guyana is not immune to those patterns simply because it wishes to be. It is immune only if its citizens, its institutions, and its press refuse to allow them to take hold.

The Opposition: A Silence That Cannot Be Excused

But accountability cannot rest with the press and civil society alone. 

In a functioning democracy, the primary instrument of political accountability is an active, disciplined, and courageous opposition.

What Guyana has instead is a political opposition that appears to have confused survival with effectiveness.

Statements are issued. Press releases are distributed. Condemnations are offered. But the kind of organised, sustained, visible pressure that forces a government to reckon with consequence — that remains largely absent. And absence, in politics, is never neutral. It is always read as permission.

There is no shortage of legitimate grievances for an opposition to anchor itself to. There is no absence of public concern, no scarcity of issues that demand urgent and focused attention. The material for a serious accountability movement exists in abundance. What is missing is the will to build one.

That absence is a political failure of the first order. An opposition that does not hold the government to account is not merely ineffective — it is complicit. Not in intention, perhaps, but in effect. And in politics, effect is what matters.

The people of Guyana did not elect an opposition to manage their own irrelevance. They elected it to be the institutional voice of scrutiny, challenge, and alternative vision. When it falls short of that mandate, it does not merely fail itself — it fails every citizen who counted on it to speak when speaking was difficult.

The opposition must understand: the nation is watching not for what it says, but for what it does. Consistency, courage, and organisation are not optional features of an effective political movement. They are its foundation.

The Void That Is Created

When a government expands unchecked and opposition contracts in silence, a void is created.

And voids do not remain empty.

They are filled — by fatalism, by cynicism, by the creeping conviction that participation is pointless and engagement is futile. They are filled by the quiet withdrawal of citizens who once believed in the possibility of accountability and have slowly been taught not to. They are filled, eventually, by a political culture in which power is the only thing that matters because it is the only thing that appears to work.

That is the real danger now facing Guyana. Not a single scandal. Not a single policy failure. Not a single act of overreach. But the cultural shift that occurs when a population decides, collectively and quietly, that holding power to account is someone else’s problem — or no one’s problem at all.

Four years from the next election is not merely a timeline. For too many citizens, it has become an excuse for disengagement — a reason to wait rather than to act. But democracy does not operate on election cycles. It operates every day, in every institution, in every conversation, in every question asked and every demand made.

The space between elections is not a void. It is where accountability either lives or dies.

The Fourth Estate: Consequential, Not Comfortable

Into this space, the press must step — not cautiously, not partially, but fully and without apology.

Journalism was never designed to be a passive recorder of official positions. It was designed to be the mechanism by which citizens understand what power is doing in their name. When that mechanism functions well, accountability is possible. When it functions poorly — when it normalises silence, when it reports without interrogating, when it mistakes access for independence — democracy suffers consequences it may not immediately see but will eventually feel.

This is not a call for recklessness. It is not an invitation to abandon fairness, accuracy, or proportion. On the contrary, it is a demand for a deeper commitment to all three — because it is precisely the rigour of good journalism that gives it the moral authority to challenge power without apology.

What it does require is courage. The willingness to ask the questions that those in authority would prefer remain unasked. The discipline to follow a story not merely when it is convenient, but when it is difficult. The editorial resolve to resist the twin temptations of access journalism on one hand and performative outrage on the other — and instead pursue, consistently and seriously, the truth of what is happening to this country and why.

The press must connect the dots that official narratives leave disconnected. It must amplify the voices that power has learned to ignore. It must frame the stakes of what is happening with sufficient clarity that citizens who feel distant from politics can understand, concretely, what they stand to lose.

And it must do all of this with the moral seriousness that the moment demands — not as advocacy for any political faction, but as an act of service to the public whose right to know is not a courtesy extended by the powerful, but a cornerstone of democratic life.

A Nation That Must Choose

But ultimately — and this must be said plainly — no institution can substitute for the will of the people themselves.

The Guyanese people are not powerless. They are, in the most fundamental sense, the source of all legitimate authority in this country. The government derives its mandate from them. The opposition earns its relevance from them. Even the press operates at the pleasure of an informed and engaged readership.

When citizens disengage, they do not merely step back from politics. They step back from the source of their own power. And power, once ceded, is rarely returned without effort.

The task before the nation is not to wait for the right leader, the right election, the right moment. It is to refuse — now, consistently, loudly where necessary and quietly where effective — to allow the normalisation of silence to become permanent.

It is to demand accountability not as a political preference but as a civic obligation. To recognise that the erosion of democratic norms, however gradual, has consequences that compound over time. To understand that a generation that grows up without witnessing meaningful accountability learns, from that experience, not to expect it.

This is the inheritance that is at stake. Not merely the next election cycle. Not merely the next policy decision. But the political culture that will define what kind of country Guyana becomes — and what kind of citizens its children learn to be

The Measure of This Moment

History will not remember who was most comfortable during this period. It will remember who was most consequential.

It will remember whether the institutions designed to check power did so. Whether the voices charged with informing the public chose honesty over convenience. Whether ordinary citizens, in the face of what felt like overwhelming indifference, chose engagement over resignation.

The silence settling over Guyana is not inevitable. It is a choice — one being made, or not made, every day by those who govern, those who oppose, those who report, and those who simply live here and care about the country they inhabit.

The question this nation must answer — not in four years, but now — is whether that silence will be accepted, or whether there remain enough people willing to insist, with clarity and without apology, that Guyana deserves better.

It does.

And the time to say so is not later.

It is now.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝 𝘼𝙘𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮,𝙄𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙄𝙣𝙂𝙪𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙖 𝘼𝙣𝙙𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨. — ✦—

The Noise Monitor and the Portrait: When Government Agencies Become Political Props

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BY: Hem Kumar                               

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣

There is something deeply telling about the way governments reveal their true priorities — not in their budgets, not in their legislation, but in their posters.

The Environmental Protection Agency of Guyana, in partnership with the National Data Management Authority, recently announced the launch of a pilot noise monitoring and public warning system at Kitty Seawall. The technology itself — sensors that detect excessive noise levels in real time and trigger a public LED display warning — is, in principle, a sensible application of modern infrastructure to a longstanding civic irritant. Noise pollution is real. Its effects on health, community wellbeing, and quality of life are well-documented. A government agency deploying smart technology to address it deserves, at minimum, a fair hearing.

But then you look at the poster.

And when you look at the poster carefully — really carefully — something shifts. Because what the EPA and NDMA have produced is not a public information notice. It is not a civic announcement. It is not even a competent piece of government communication. What it is, stripped of its technical language and its official logos, is a campaign flyer. A political branding exercise. A taxpayer-funded advertisement for the presidency of Mohammed Irfaan Ali — delivered under the cover of environmental regulation.

The Portrait Problem

Let us be precise about what the poster actually contains, because precision matters here.

The announcement dedicates significant visual real estate — arguably the most emotionally arresting section of the entire design — to a full portrait photograph of President Ali, formally dressed, smiling, positioned against the Guyanese national flag. Beside him, in bold type, he is identified as “His Excellency President Mohammed Irfaan Ali.” Below that, a pull quote attributed to him reads: “Building a modern, resilient and technology-driven Guyana that works for every citizen.” Above the portrait, in italicised text, the poster states that the project is “Guided by the leadership and vision of His Excellency President Mohammed Irfaan Ali.”

None of that is necessary to inform the public about a noise monitoring pilot at Kitty Seawall.

Not a single word of it.

A member of the public who wants to know what the system does, where it is located, what noise thresholds trigger an alert, or what enforcement action follows does not need to know whose vision inspired the pole. They do not need a presidential portrait. They do not need an attributed quote about resilience and technology. What they need is practical civic information — and that, notably, the poster provides only in the most skeletal terms before pivoting back to political imagery.
This is not an oversight. It is a choice. And it is a choice that tells us far more about how this administration uses state institutions than any press conference ever could.

Agencies Are Not Surrogates

The Environmental Protection Agency exists to regulate, monitor, and enforce environmental standards on behalf of the Guyanese public. It draws its budget from the public purse. Its mandate is derived from statute, not from the preferences of any sitting president. When it produces public communications, those communications are — in the most literal legal and democratic sense — public property paid for by public money.

Using that platform to promote a political figure is an abuse of institutional function. It does not matter that the president is the head of state. It does not matter that the project may have received executive support or policy direction. What matters is that a regulatory agency has allowed itself to become an instrument of political image-making — and in doing so, has compromised the very institutional credibility it depends on to do its job.

Enforcement agencies only work when the public believes they are neutral. When the EPA arrives at your business to issue a noise violation, the legitimacy of that action rests on the assumption that the agency is acting on the law, not on political instruction. The moment an agency begins visually associating itself with a political figure — the moment it starts attributing its own regulatory functions to the leader’s “vision” — that neutrality corrodes. And once institutional credibility corrodes, it is extraordinarily difficult to rebuild.

The Pattern Is the Problem

This would be easier to dismiss if it were an isolated incident. It is not.

The personalisation of state functions around the presidency has become a defining feature of how this administration presents its governance. Infrastructure projects, social programmes, technology initiatives — they arrive in the public domain not as the work of institutions, but as expressions of presidential vision, presidential leadership, presidential generosity. The individual displaces the institution at every turn.

This matters because democratic governance is supposed to work the other way around. The institution is supposed to be larger than the individual. The EPA is supposed to outlast any president. The NDMA is supposed to serve successive administrations without becoming identified with any one of them. When agencies begin producing materials that fuse their institutional identity with the political identity of the current head of state, they are not strengthening governance. They are weakening it — by making themselves dependent on political proximity rather than public trust.

What the Poster Does Not Tell You

Beyond the politics, it is worth noting what this elaborate, visually sophisticated, officially stamped poster conspicuously fails to explain.

It does not tell you what the specific decibel threshold triggers the alert. It does not explain what happens after the LED display warns that noise levels are loud — who is notified, what powers are exercised, what due process exists for a business or individual cited for a violation. It does not describe how long data is retained, who has access to it, or whether the monitoring system has any recording or surveillance capacity beyond audio levels. It does not explain how the pilot will be evaluated, what metrics determine success, or what criteria will govern the decision to expand the system to other public locations across Guyana.

These are not minor technical footnotes. They are the substance of the policy. They are the questions that determine whether this is a genuine public interest initiative or a piece of visible governance — the kind that looks active and modern in a photograph but operates without the transparency that real accountability requires.

A government serious about noise regulation would lead with that information. A government serious about public trust would make those answers easy to find. Instead, we got a presidential portrait and a slogan.

The Irony Is Deafening

There is a particular irony lodged at the heart of this episode that deserves to be named plainly.

The stated purpose of the noise monitoring system is to reduce unwanted, excessive, intrusive noise in public spaces — to protect the community from disturbance it did not ask for and cannot easily escape. The poster announcing that system is itself a form of political noise: loud, intrusive, impossible to mistake for something neutral, and entirely unrequested by the citizens it claims to serve.

The LED board on that pole at Kitty Seawall reportedly displays the words: “NOISE LEVEL LOUD. PLEASE KEEP THE AREA BELOW THE NOISE LIMIT.”

Someone at the EPA might want to read that message twice.

What Should Happen

This editorial is not an argument against noise regulation, or against technology-assisted enforcement, or even against this specific pilot project. If the system works as described, if it is governed by clear legal thresholds, and if enforcement is applied consistently and transparently, it could represent a genuine improvement in how Guyana manages shared public spaces.

But the EPA and NDMA owe the public more than a promotional poster and a presidential portrait. They owe a published framework: the legal basis for enforcement, the technical specifications of the system, the data governance policy, the complaints and appeals process, and a clear account of how the pilot will be independently evaluated before any expansion is authorised.
And they owe the public a commitment — stated clearly and upheld consistently — that government agencies in Guyana exist to serve citizens, not to serve as backdrops for political branding.
Until that commitment is demonstrated, every poster like this one is evidence of its absence.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣-𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝 , 𝘼𝙘𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮, 𝙄𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙄𝙣 𝙂𝙪𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙖 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨.— ✦—

Billions in the Shadows: The Procurement Questions No One Is Answering

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BY: Staff- Writer 

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣

The controversy now engulfing Guyana’s small contractors’ programme is no longer about administrative delays or technical glitches. What has been exposed points to something far more serious: a system that appears compromised at its very foundation, raising urgent questions about fairness, transparency, and the politicisation of public resources.

Vice President Bharrat Jagdeo’s attempt to defend the initiative has done little to contain the fallout. Instead, it has drawn sharper attention to the contradictions at the heart of the programme—particularly the claim that “every legitimately prequalified contractor” will receive work, even as evidence continues to surface that the process itself may have been neither open nor equitable.

At the centre of this growing storm is a fundamental breach of principle. Public procurement—especially at a time of unprecedented national wealth—is supposed to operate on openness and equal access. Yet multiple reports indicate that the initial invitation to participate in this programme was not widely publicised to the general public. Instead, awareness appears to have been concentrated within select networks, with broader disclosure only emerging after information was leaked and subsequently raised by the Leader of the Opposition.

If true, that alone undermines the credibility of the entire exercise. A programme that begins without equal access cannot credibly claim equal opportunity.

But the concerns do not stop there.

Equally troubling are reports that several government ministers were actively compiling and submitting lists of individuals for consideration under the programme. This revelation cuts to the core of the issue. Procurement is meant to be governed by objective criteria—technical capacity, financial soundness, and proven ability to deliver. It is not supposed to be filtered through political offices or influenced by ministerial recommendations.

The obvious question arises: under what authority were ministers assembling lists of preferred participants in a supposedly structured procurement process?

And more importantly, what does that say about how contracts were intended to be distributed?

The existence of such lists suggests that the programme may have been operating less as a transparent economic initiative and more as a curated allocation exercise—one where access could be shaped, guided, or influenced long before any formal evaluation took place. Reports of conflicts between these lists and whatever criteria existed only deepen the concern, pointing to a system struggling to reconcile political inputs with procedural requirements.

It is therefore no surprise that the process ultimately stalled and spilled into the public domain. What is surprising is that it took this long.

The scale of the programme makes these concerns impossible to dismiss. With an estimated 1,200 contracts valued at up to G$15 million each, the initiative represents approximately G$18 billion in public spending. That is a substantial pool of national resources being distributed through a mechanism that is now facing serious questions about its integrity.

The structuring of these contracts just below the G$15 million threshold further intensifies scrutiny. While such thresholds are not unusual in procurement frameworks, their use at this scale raises legitimate concerns about whether the system was deliberately designed to reduce oversight. When billions of dollars are broken into smaller parcels that attract less stringent scrutiny, the cumulative effect can be the quiet weakening of accountability.

Vice President Jagdeo’s explanation—that the delays stem largely from applicants attempting to “cheat the system”—does not sufficiently address these structural concerns. Even if instances of manipulation occurred, they would only have been possible within a system that allowed for it. 

Responsibility, therefore, cannot be shifted entirely onto applicants when the design itself appears vulnerable.

More critically, there are growing questions about whether the process being described as “prequalification” meets any meaningful standard of vetting. If, as reported, entry into the programme required little more than basic registration, then the risk is not only unfair allocation but also poor execution. Contracts awarded without rigorous assessment of capacity are contracts that carry a high probability of delays, substandard work, and waste.

Overlaying all of this is the unmistakable political context. With Local Government Elections approaching, the distribution of hundreds of small contracts across communities is not a politically neutral act. Even in the absence of explicit intent, the optics are powerful: state resources flowing directly to individuals and networks at a time of electoral significance.

This is precisely why procurement systems must be insulated from political influence—not entangled with it.

The role of Vice President Jagdeo in addressing the issue has also reinforced longstanding concerns about the concentration of authority within the administration. As General Secretary of the ruling party and a dominant figure within its internal structures, his public intervention—rather than that of the President or the line Minister—signals where decisive influence is perceived to reside. In a system where party machinery and state operations are closely linked, that perception carries real implications.

Yet perhaps the most dangerous of this entire episode is the weakness of oversight at a time when it is needed most.

Guyana’s Parliament remains effectively dormant, with the Public Accounts Committee unable to perform its constitutional function of scrutinising public expenditure. This creates a vacuum of accountability just as billions of dollars are being channelled through programmes like this one. Without active oversight, even well-intentioned initiatives can drift into mismanagement. In less benign circumstances, they can become vehicles for systemic abuse.

And the risks are not abstract.

At a programme value of G$18 billion, even modest inefficiencies or irregularities translate into enormous sums. A leakage rate of just 10 percent—whether through poor oversight, inflated costs, or other forms of abuse—would amount to G$1.8 billion. That is not a theoretical concern; it is a reflection of what weak systems routinely produce.

Equally concerning is the manner in which the issue has been communicated to the public. State media coverage that largely echoes official explanations, without incorporating independent perspectives or critical voices, does little to inspire confidence. 

Transparency is not achieved by controlling the narrative—it is achieved by opening it to scrutiny.

Taken together, these developments point to a deeper and more unsettling reality. What is being contested is not just a programme, but a pattern—one in which access to state resources risks becoming increasingly mediated by political structures, informal networks, and discretionary influence.

Guyana’sw oil wealth has created an opportunity unlike any in its history. 

But it has also exposed the fragility of its institutions. If programmes of this magnitude can be launched without full transparency, influenced by political actors, and executed without robust oversight, then the country is not simply facing isolated governance failures—it is confronting the early formation of a system where public funds are neither fully public nor fully protected.

And that is a trajectory that, once entrenched, becomes exceedingly difficult to reverse.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣-𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝 , 𝘼𝙘𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮, 𝙄𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙄𝙣 𝙂𝙪𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙖 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨.— ✦—

The Myth of the Unwilling Worker

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SPECIAL REPORT

Part 1 of 2: How a Single Statement Exposed a Much Bigger Story

BY: Hem Kumar                               

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣

There is a particular kind of arrogance that does not announce itself as arrogance. It arrives dressed as concern, framed in the language of partnership, and delivered with the calm authority of those who have never had to wonder whether the rules of a country apply equally to them.

That is precisely what was on display when the Chinese Association of Guyana issued its public statement about the trucking dispute — and in doing so, lit a fuse they did not expect.

The Association’s central claim, stripped of its diplomatic dressing, was this: Guyanese workers do not want to work weekends and public holidays. Therefore, it was implied, Chinese operators had little choice but to look elsewhere for the labour that locals supposedly refused to provide.

It was a breathtaking claim.

Not because it was unfamiliar — the narrative of the “lazy local worker” has been a colonial fixture for centuries, deployed whenever outside interests needed justification for importing their own people, their own terms, and their own profits. But because it was made in 2024, in a Guyana that can now look back at the evidence and say, with documented clarity: this is not true, and the people making this claim know it is not true.

“The narrative of the ‘lazy local worker’ has been a colonial fixture for centuries. It did not become truth by being repeated again in 2026.”

Walk Into Any Chinese-Owned Supermarket

Do it on a Saturday afternoon. Do it on a Sunday morning. Do it on Mashramani, on Republic Day, on a public holiday when most government offices are locked. Walk into any of the Chinese-operated retail chains that have spread with remarkable speed through Georgetown, through Agricola, and deep into the interior corridor to Lethem.

What will you find?

Guyanese workers. At the cash registers. Stocking shelves. Moving inventory. Handling customer queries. Doing exactly the kind of weekend and public holiday work the Association just told the nation that Guyanese workers refuse to do.

These are not foreign imports. These are not specially flown-in workers with a superior cultural work ethic. These are the same Guyanese men and women the Association’s statement implicitly dismissed — working extended hours, working demanding schedules, working in sectors where the operating model depends on exactly that availability.

So before we go any further, let us be precise about what was actually said when the Association blamed Guyanese workers for the trucking dispute: it was not an observation. It was a narrative strategy.

And it failed — because the evidence to dismantle it was hiding in plain sight, behind every checkout counter in every Chinese-owned store in this country.

The Six Hospitals They Did Not Build Alone

Perhaps the most powerful rebuttal to the “unwilling worker” claim does not come from retail at all. It comes from one of the most significant infrastructure undertakings in recent Guyanese history.

Six regional hospitals, constructed across this country’s diverse and often challenging geography. Projects requiring skilled tradespeople, construction labourers, logistics workers, ground clearance teams — work that is physically demanding, deadline-driven, and conducted in conditions that would test any workforce anywhere in the world.

Those hospitals were built with substantial Guyanese labour.

Let that sit for a moment. The very workforce being characterised as reluctant, as unfit for demanding schedules, as insufficiently committed to hard work — that workforce helped erect hospitals across six regions of this country. They showed up. They did the job. The buildings stand as evidence.

What the hospital contracts also produced, however, was something less visible but arguably more consequential: foreign contractors walked away with technical expertise, contractual precedent, and deepened footholds in Guyana’s infrastructure market. The labour was local. The institutional value accumulated elsewhere.

Guyana’s workers built those hospitals. Guyana’s workers did not inherit the contracts.

So What Is the Trucking Dispute Actually About?

The truckers raising concerns about displacement from their own sector are not making a cultural argument. They are making an economic one — and it is specific. The complaint is not that Chinese operators exist in the logistics sector. It is about how they have positioned themselves within it:

  • Price undercutting that does not appear sustainable at normal operating costs — raising legitimate questions about how those prices are being structured.
  • Vertical integration — ownership of both the vehicles and the contracts they service — that systematically excludes independent local operators from the value chain.
  • Entry into private market activity that goes beyond what partnership agreements and investment frameworks would typically envision.

These are structural complaints about market architecture. They deserve structural responses. What they received instead was a character attack on Guyanese workers — a deflection so transparent that it raises the obvious question: if your position is defensible on the merits, why attack the people raising concerns about it?

The Association’s statement did not answer the truckers’ economic grievances. It attempted to change the subject. And in changing the subject to labour character, it revealed more about the underlying dynamic than any formal investigation has yet confirmed.

The Contradiction the Statement Cannot Survive

Here is what cannot be reconciled:

If Guyanese workers refuse to work weekends and public holidays — Chinese-owned retail operations across this country could not function as they currently do, staffed as they are by local employees working exactly those schedules.

If local capacity is insufficient for demanding work — six regional hospitals could not have been built to completion with a workforce that was, by this account, too uncommitted to deliver.

The Association’s narrative requires you to believe both of these things while ignoring the evidence directly in front of you. That is not analysis. That is not fact. That is the construction of a justification, assembled after the conclusion was already decided.

The real questions the trucking dispute forces onto the table are not about Guyanese work culture. They are about:

  • What wage and contract terms are being offered to local workers in sectors where Chinese operators hold dominant positions?
  • What market mechanisms allow prices to be set at levels that independent local businesses cannot match?
  • What regulatory frameworks exist to ensure that investment partnership does not quietly become market capture?

These are the questions a serious policy response would address. These are the questions Part 2 of this analysis will follow directly into retail domination, mining operations, infrastructure dependency, and the larger question of what economic sovereignty actually looks like when the investment headlines are stripped away.

“The issue is not that Guyanese workers refuse to work. The evidence across retail, construction, and mining proves the opposite. The issue is whether Guyanese are being allowed to compete — on fair terms — in their own economy.”

CONTINUES IN PART 2: “WHO OWNS THE ECONOMY?”

Retail domination in Agricola and Lethem • Mining control and broken promises at Bosai • Infrastructure dependency • The reciprocity question • Who is responsible for ensuring openness does not become one-sided exposure?

This analysis is based on reported across sectors and documented cases. Specific figures and contract details referenced reflect publicly available and community-reported information.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣-𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝 , 𝘼𝙘𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮, 𝙄𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙄𝙣 𝙂𝙪𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙖 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨.— ✦—

Billions in the Shadows: The Procurement Questions No One Is Answering

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BY: Staff- Writer 

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣

The controversy now engulfing Guyana’s small contractors’ programme is no longer about administrative delays or technical glitches. What has been exposed points to something far more serious: a system that appears compromised at its very foundation, raising urgent questions about fairness, transparency, and the politicisation of public resources.

Vice President Bharrat Jagdeo’s attempt to defend the initiative has done little to contain the fallout. Instead, it has drawn sharper attention to the contradictions at the heart of the programme—particularly the claim that “every legitimately prequalified contractor” will receive work, even as evidence continues to surface that the process itself may have been neither open nor equitable.

At the centre of this growing storm is a fundamental breach of principle. Public procurement—especially at a time of unprecedented national wealth—is supposed to operate on openness and equal access. Yet multiple reports indicate that the initial invitation to participate in this programme was not widely publicised to the general public. Instead, awareness appears to have been concentrated within select networks, with broader disclosure only emerging after information was leaked and subsequently raised by the Leader of the Opposition.

If true, that alone undermines the credibility of the entire exercise. A programme that begins without equal access cannot credibly claim equal opportunity.

But the concerns do not stop there.

Equally troubling are reports that several government ministers were actively compiling and submitting lists of individuals for consideration under the programme. This revelation cuts to the core of the issue. Procurement is meant to be governed by objective criteria—technical capacity, financial soundness, and proven ability to deliver. It is not supposed to be filtered through political offices or influenced by ministerial recommendations.

The obvious question arises: under what authority were ministers assembling lists of preferred participants in a supposedly structured procurement process?

And more importantly, what does that say about how contracts were intended to be distributed?

The existence of such lists suggests that the programme may have been operating less as a transparent economic initiative and more as a curated allocation exercise—one where access could be shaped, guided, or influenced long before any formal evaluation took place. Reports of conflicts between these lists and whatever criteria existed only deepen the concern, pointing to a system struggling to reconcile political inputs with procedural requirements.

It is therefore no surprise that the process ultimately stalled and spilled into the public domain. What is surprising is that it took this long.

The scale of the programme makes these concerns impossible to dismiss. With an estimated 1,200 contracts valued at up to G$15 million each, the initiative represents approximately G$18 billion in public spending. That is a substantial pool of national resources being distributed through a mechanism that is now facing serious questions about its integrity.

The structuring of these contracts just below the G$15 million threshold further intensifies scrutiny. While such thresholds are not unusual in procurement frameworks, their use at this scale raises legitimate concerns about whether the system was deliberately designed to reduce oversight. When billions of dollars are broken into smaller parcels that attract less stringent scrutiny, the cumulative effect can be the quiet weakening of accountability.

Vice President Jagdeo’s explanation—that the delays stem largely from applicants attempting to “cheat the system”—does not sufficiently address these structural concerns. Even if instances of manipulation occurred, they would only have been possible within a system that allowed for it. 

Responsibility, therefore, cannot be shifted entirely onto applicants when the design itself appears vulnerable.

More critically, there are growing questions about whether the process being described as “prequalification” meets any meaningful standard of vetting. If, as reported, entry into the programme required little more than basic registration, then the risk is not only unfair allocation but also poor execution. Contracts awarded without rigorous assessment of capacity are contracts that carry a high probability of delays, substandard work, and waste.

Overlaying all of this is the unmistakable political context. With Local Government Elections approaching, the distribution of hundreds of small contracts across communities is not a politically neutral act. Even in the absence of explicit intent, the optics are powerful: state resources flowing directly to individuals and networks at a time of electoral significance.

This is precisely why procurement systems must be insulated from political influence—not entangled with it.

The role of Vice President Jagdeo in addressing the issue has also reinforced longstanding concerns about the concentration of authority within the administration. As General Secretary of the ruling party and a dominant figure within its internal structures, his public intervention—rather than that of the President or the line Minister—signals where decisive influence is perceived to reside. In a system where party machinery and state operations are closely linked, that perception carries real implications.

Yet perhaps the most dangerous aspect of this entire episode is the weakness of oversight at a time when it is needed most.

Guyana’s Parliament remains effectively dormant, with the Public Accounts Committee unable to perform its constitutional function of scrutinising public expenditure. This creates a vacuum of accountability just as billions of dollars are being channelled through programmes like this one. Without active oversight, even well-intentioned initiatives can drift into mismanagement. In less benign circumstances, they can become vehicles for systemic abuse.

And the risks are not abstract.

At a programme value of G$18 billion, even modest inefficiencies or irregularities translate into enormous sums. A leakage rate of just 10 percent—whether through poor oversight, inflated costs, or other forms of abuse—would amount to G$1.8 billion. That is not a theoretical concern; it is a reflection of what weak systems routinely produce.

Equally concerning is the manner in which the issue has been communicated to the public. State media coverage that largely echoes official explanations, without incorporating independent perspectives or critical voices, does little to inspire confidence. 

Transparency is not achieved by controlling the narrative—it is achieved by opening it to scrutiny.

Taken together, these developments point to a deeper and more unsettling reality. What is being contested is not just a programme, but a pattern—one in which access to state resources risks becoming increasingly mediated by political structures, informal networks, and discretionary influence.

Guyana’s oil wealth has created an opportunity unlike any in its history. 

But it has also exposed the fragility of its institutions. If programmes of this magnitude can be launched without full transparency, influenced by political actors, and executed without robust oversight, then the country is not simply facing isolated governance failures—it is confronting the early formation of a system where public funds are neither fully public nor fully protected.

And that is a trajectory that, once entrenched, becomes exceedingly difficult to reverse.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣-𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝 , 𝘼𝙘𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮, 𝙄𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙄𝙣 𝙂𝙪𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙖 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨.— ✦—

Guyana’s Great Exodus: Oil Wealth, Empty Institutions, and the Cost of Driving Away Our Best

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BY: Hem Kumar 

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣

Even as Guyana celebrates unprecedented oil revenues and boasts of becoming a “world-class” nation, a far more sobering reality is unfolding beneath the surface—one that no ribbon-cutting ceremony or glossy investment brochure can conceal. According to the 2026 United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) Democracy and Development Report, Guyana now ranks among the worst countries in the world for brain drain, surpassing even nations grappling with war, systemic collapse, and humanitarian disaster.

𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙄𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙙𝙖𝙢𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜.

How does a country experiencing one of the fastest economic expansions globally simultaneously record one of the highest rates of human capital flight? How does a nation flush with oil revenues fail so profoundly at retaining its most educated citizens? 

These are not abstract questions—they strike at the heart of governance, priorities, and the integrity of leadership.

President Irfaan Ali, in his recent outreach to the diaspora in Canada, painted a picture of a rapidly modernizing Guyana—a land of opportunity calling its sons and daughters home. But the UNDP’s findings tell a different story: a country its own people are fleeing in record numbers. Nearly 90 percent of Guyanese with tertiary education eventually leave. That is not migration. That is a structural evacuation of talent.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙚𝙤𝙥𝙡𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙂𝙪𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙖. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙮𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙢 𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙟𝙚𝙘𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢.

At the core of this exodus lies a troubling contradiction. Guyana is rich in resources but poor in institutional quality. Oil wealth has expanded GDP, but it has not translated into improved healthcare, education, housing, or professional working conditions. Instead, many citizens experience a daily reality marked by rising cost of living, strained public services, and limited merit-based opportunities.

The UNDP report underscores this imbalance. Life expectancy remains among the lowest in the Caribbean. Healthcare infrastructure continues to lag. Public institutions are struggling. These are not the hallmarks of a “world-class” nation—they are warning signs of a country failing to convert wealth into human development.

But beyond infrastructure, there is a deeper, more uncomfortable truth—one that many Guyanese speak about privately but fear articulating publicly.

𝙈𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙤𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙨.

There is a growing perception, both locally and in the diaspora, that advancement within key sectors is too often influenced by political loyalty, personal connections, and cronyism rather than competence. Talented professionals—doctors, engineers, analysts, public servants—find themselves sidelined, overlooked, or forced to operate in environments where excellence is neither rewarded nor protected.

𝙄𝙣 𝙨𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙖 𝙨𝙮𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙢, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙚—𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙚𝙭𝙞𝙩.

As the saying goes in Guyana, “the government don’t like bright people.” Whether rhetorical or real, that sentiment is gaining traction because it reflects lived experiences. When capable individuals feel constrained by less qualified leadership, when innovation is stifled by bureaucracy, and when integrity is undermined by patronage, migration becomes not just an option—but a necessity.

The result is a dangerous cycle.

As skilled citizens leave, institutional capacity weakens. As institutions weaken, governance deteriorates. As governance deteriorates, more people lose confidence and follow the same path out. What remains is a hollowed-out state—one rich in oil but poor in expertise, oversight, and accountability.

This is not theoretical. The UNDP explicitly warns that Guyana’s brain drain is both a cause and a consequence of democratic decline. 

𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙙𝙪𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙨 𝙚𝙭𝙞𝙩𝙨, 𝙨𝙤 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙖 𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙡𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙮, 𝙘𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙘 𝙚𝙣𝙜𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙙𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚. 

𝙒𝙝𝙤, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙣, 𝙞𝙨 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙭𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙣 𝙤𝙞𝙡 𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙤𝙢𝙮? 𝙒𝙝𝙤 𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙮? 𝙒𝙝𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙨 𝙥𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚?

At the same time, Guyana is absorbing migrants fleeing crisis in neighboring Venezuela—many of whom face the same systemic challenges in accessing healthcare, housing, and employment. This creates a dual pressure: a loss of domestic talent alongside the strain of integrating vulnerable populations into already fragile systems.

The government cannot continue to ignore this reality or dismiss it as a natural byproduct of globalization. This is not a case of people simply seeking “better opportunities” abroad. This is a referendum on governance.

If Guyana is to reverse this trend, it must confront uncomfortable truths. 

𝙊𝙞𝙡 𝙬𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙩𝙝 𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙪𝙞𝙡𝙙 𝙖 𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣—𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙩𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙙𝙤. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙩𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙪𝙣𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩, 𝙚𝙢𝙥𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙡𝙮 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙥𝙚𝙤𝙥𝙡𝙚.

Retention of talent requires more than patriotic appeals. It demands:

• A genuine commitment to meritocracy in public appointments and promotions

• Competitive wages and working conditions in critical sectors like healthcare and education

• Serious investment in public services that improve quality of life

• Transparent governance that rebuilds trust in state institutions

• A political culture that values competence over compliance

Until these issues are addressed, calls for the diaspora to return will ring hollow.

Guyana does not have a shortage of talent. It has a shortage of conditions that allow talent to stay.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙪𝙣𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙨, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙮 𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙠𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙭 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙧—𝙖 𝙗𝙤𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙥𝙚𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙩𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨, 𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙪𝙚𝙨, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙪𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙂𝙪𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣.

𝙄𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙤.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣-𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝 , 𝘼𝙘𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮, 𝙄𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙄𝙣 𝙂𝙪𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙖 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨.— ✦—