Drones Above, 

Darkness Below

  A government that can choreograph spectacle should be able to deliver services. Guyana’s real crisis is not a shortage of celebration, but a shortage of competence.

Guyana is being invited to celebrate lights in the sky while too many of its citizens continue to struggle with the absence of reliable lights on the ground. That is the paradox of this moment: a government eager to stage spectacle, yet far less convincing when it comes to delivering the basic services that make daily life bearable.

There is nothing wrong with a national celebration. A country should mark its milestones with pride. But celebration becomes offensive when it is used to distract from dysfunction, when choreographed beauty is deployed to mask administrative failure, and when the people are expected to applaud while they are still trapped in the consequences of neglect.

The drone display may have dazzled the eye, but it did not dry a flooded street, unclog a drain, or ease the hardship of families whose yards and communities remain waterlogged after every serious rainfall. It did not restore confidence in drainage maintenance or repair the long-standing neglect that has turned flooding into a recurring feature of life for too many Guyanese.

And then there is GPL — or rather, the lack of dependable light from GPL. Here lies the cruel irony. The state can summon drones to paint patterns in the night sky, but it cannot consistently ensure that homes, businesses, and neighborhoods are properly served by the public utility people depend on every day. One is engineered for applause. The other is supposed to be basic governance. 

Yet in Guyana, the spectacle shines more brightly than the service.

That is why the contrast matters. It reveals a government more comfortable with symbolism than with substance, more interested in presentation than performance. Drone lights are temporary, theatrical, and forgettable. Reliable electricity, functional drainage, and passable roads are not luxuries. They are the foundation of a civilized society. When those fail, no amount of pageantry can persuade people that they are living under competent leadership.

A serious administration would understand that the true measure of progress is not how well it can stage a celebration, but how consistently it can improve the lives of ordinary citizens. It would know that the real test of power is not the ability to put on a show, but the discipline to maintain drains, clear canals, repair roads, strengthen utilities, and protect communities from preventable hardship.

Instead, Guyanese are too often told to look up while they are forced to look down. Up at the drones. Down at the floodwater. Up at the spectacle. Down at the stagnation. Up at the promise of a modern nation. Down at the reality of services that remain unreliable and communities that remain neglected.

This is not a matter of optics alone. It is a matter of priorities. 

A government that can choreograph lights in the sky should be able to guarantee lights in the homes of its people. A state that can fund spectacle should be able to fund service. A leadership that celebrates national progress must first prove that it can deliver the basics without turning every rainy season into a crisis.

Until that happens, the paradox will remain impossible to ignore. The drones will glow overhead. GPL will continue to symbolize the frustration below. And ordinary Guyanese will be left to wonder why their country can illuminate the night for a celebration but not consistently light the lives of the people who make that nation real.

Guyana does not need more theatrical light shows; it needs dependable light, dependable drainage, and dependable leadership.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙂𝙪𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙮 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙘, 𝙥𝙤𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙨.

Flag, Fiasco, Fallout:

The Desecration of Fort Zeelandia

Fort Zeelandia did not deteriorate overnight. Its current condition, following the ill-conceived Independence flag-raising event, is the direct result of decisions—decisions made by public officials entrusted with both national heritage and public funds.

What unfolded was not simply a poorly managed ceremony. It was a failure of governance.

Responsibility begins squarely with the Ministry of Culture, Youth and Sport, the state body charged with oversight of national events and the preservation of cultural assets. Any event staged at a site of this magnitude requires meticulous planning, strict usage controls, and, critically, a post-event restoration protocol. The absence of these basic safeguards suggests either a breakdown in administrative competence or a disregard for the site’s historical value.

Equally implicated is the National Trust of Guyana, the statutory agency specifically mandated to protect and manage heritage sites such as Fort Zeelandia. If the Trust approved the use of the site without enforceable preservation conditions, then it failed in its legal and moral duty. If it was bypassed or sidelined, then that raises even more serious questions about governance and institutional integrity.

And above these agencies sits the Cabinet itself, which cannot credibly claim ignorance. National Independence events are not minor undertakings; they are centrally coordinated, politically visible, and funded from the public purse. That means ultimate accountability rests at the highest levels of government, including the Office of the President, which has repeatedly positioned itself as a champion of Guyana’s global environmental and sustainability credentials.

This is where the contradiction becomes impossible to ignore.

Guyana has aggressively marketed its Low Carbon Development Strategy and carbon credit framework to the international community, positioning itself as a model of environmental stewardship. Billions in climate financing are premised on the idea that this nation understands the value of preservation—that it treats its natural and cultural assets with care, discipline, and respect.

Yet at Fort Zeelandia, we see the opposite: a heritage site treated as a disposable backdrop, left visibly degraded in the wake of a single evening’s spectacle.

Environmental stewardship is not divisible. A government cannot credibly claim to safeguard millions of hectares of forest while failing to protect a single, well-defined national monument. The principles are the same—planning, respect, accountability, and restoration.

What compounds the issue is the question of public funds. How much was spent on this event? Which contractors were engaged? Were there environmental or heritage impact guidelines embedded in those contracts? And crucially, has any allocation been made for the restoration of the site?

Silence on these questions only deepens public suspicion.

This is not merely about optics. It is about governance culture. When state institutions act without consequence—when heritage protections are ignored, when public spending yields damage rather than value, when no official steps forward to accept responsibility—the result is erosion not just of physical sites, but of public trust.

Fort Zeelandia is not an ordinary space. It is a repository of national memory. It carries the weight of Guyana’s colonial history, its struggles, and its evolution into an independent state. To allow it to be mishandled in this way is to diminish that history itself.

The government now faces a simple test.

Will the Ministry of Culture publicly account for its planning failures? Will the National Trust assert its authority and outline corrective measures? Will there be a transparent assessment of damage and a funded restoration plan? And most importantly, will anyone in a position of authority accept responsibility?

Or will this, like too many other episodes, be quietly absorbed into the machinery of impunity?

Guyana cannot afford that outcome—not if it wishes to be taken seriously, either by its own citizens or by the international partners to whom it sells a vision of sustainability and stewardship.

Because stewardship is not declared. It is demonstrated.

And at Fort Zeelandia, the demonstration has been a failure.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙂𝙪𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙮 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙘, 𝙥𝙤𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙨.

World- class

World-class

Abuse of public funds

Abuse of Public Funds

Rental paid by you

Clean up paid by you

Who cleans this ?

Big Soiree?

Rental

Rental still being paid

58% Poverty

58% Poverty?

Desecration of Flag

No respect

Who is paying for this?

A HERITAGE SITE ?

THE 592 GUARDIAN OPINION

Recent developments in Kenya offer a timely and instructive lesson for emerging economies seeking to position themselves within the global digital and artificial intelligence landscape. The suspension of a proposed US$1 billion Microsoft-backed data center—on the grounds that it would place unsustainable pressure on the national electricity grid—underscores a fundamental principle of modern development: ambition must be matched by infrastructure.

Kenya, with an installed electricity capacity of approximately 3,000 megawatts and a comparatively advanced renewable energy portfolio, was compelled to acknowledge that a single hyperscale data facility could consume a substantial share of its national supply. The implications were clear. Without adequate surplus capacity and grid resilience, even the most prestigious investments become untenable.

This reality bears direct relevance to Guyana.

In recent public pronouncements, President Irfaan Ali has advanced the vision of establishing a “Silicon Valley” in Guyana—a concept that, while aspirational, appears disconnected from the country’s present infrastructural conditions. Guyana remains in the process of bringing its 300 MW Gas-to-Energy (GtE) project to operational status, a development that is itself critical to stabilizing domestic supply and reducing energy costs. Yet this project, foundational as it is, does not represent surplus capacity; it represents a long-overdue baseline.

Hyperscale data centers—the backbone of any genuine technology hub—are among the most resource-intensive facilities in existence. Their demands extend well beyond electricity. A single large-scale facility can require between 100 MW and 300 MW of continuous power, alongside extensive cooling systems that depend on significant volumes of water. These are not marginal increases in demand; they are industrial-scale requirements that must be sustained without interruption.

Guyana’s current realities raise serious questions about readiness on both fronts.

Electricity supply, while improving, remains constrained and in transition. The completion and integration of the GtE project are prerequisites for stability, not indicators of excess. Equally pressing is the issue of water. Across Georgetown and other regions, citizens and businesses continue to face persistent challenges with water pressure, reliability, and distribution. The notion of diverting large volumes of treated water to support energy-intensive data infrastructure—while sections of the population experience daily shortages—demands careful scrutiny.

Modern data centers often rely on water-based cooling systems that can consume millions of gallons annually, depending on scale and technology. In jurisdictions where such facilities are successfully deployed, water management systems are robust, redundant, and carefully regulated to prevent competition between industrial and domestic needs. 

Guyana has yet to demonstrate that such systems are in place or even in advanced planning.

The broader issue, therefore, is not whether Guyana should aspire to participate in the global digital economy. It should. The issue is sequencing.

Sustainable technological development is built on a hierarchy of prerequisites: reliable and expandable energy generation, resilient transmission networks, secure and sufficient water supply, regulatory clarity, and a skilled workforce. These elements are not optional; they are foundational. Without them, high-level visions risk becoming detached from operational reality.

Kenya’s recent decision illustrates the importance of confronting these constraints early and transparently. It is a reminder that credibility in development policy is earned not through declarations, but through demonstrated capacity and disciplined execution.

Guyana stands at a pivotal moment in its economic trajectory, buoyed by significant resource revenues and international attention. This moment demands not only vision, but precision. Grand announcements must be anchored in verifiable infrastructure plans, with clear timelines, financing strategies, and independent oversight.

A technology-driven future for Guyana is achievable. However, it will not be realized through rhetoric alone. It will require sustained investment in energy and water systems, careful prioritization, and a commitment to aligning national aspirations with material capabilities.

Until such alignment is achieved, proposals of a “Silicon Valley” remain premature. What is required now is not the language of transformation, but the work that makes transformation possible.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙂𝙪𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙮 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙘, 𝙥𝙤𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙨.

Opinion | The 592 Guardian

There is a particular kind of political sin that does not announce itself with scandal or corruption. It arrives quietly, dressed in the language of progress and partnership, wearing a smile cultivated for cameras and handshakes. It is the sin of ingratitude — and President Irfaan Ali committed it in full view of the world when he stood aboard the USS Nimitz and beamed.

Let us be precise about what that image represents. The Nimitz is not a diplomatic vessel. It is not a hospital ship or a vessel of goodwill. It is among the most lethal instruments of power ever constructed by human hands — a floating airfield capable of projecting destruction to any corner of the earth. It is the embodiment of the very military-economic architecture that has strangled Cuba for over six decades, enforcing a blockade that has denied ordinary Cuban people medicine, food, and the basic dignities of modern life. To stand aboard it — not quietly, not reluctantly, but with visible pride and enthusiasm — is to make a statement. Whether Ali intended it or not, the statement was made.

And that statement lands like a slap across the face of every Guyanese who was kept alive, educated, or healed by the hands of a Cuban.

 What Cuba Did When No One Else Would

This is not nostalgia. This is not romanticism. This is recorded history.

When Guyana’s hospital wards were understaffed and its patients were dying for want of qualified physicians, it was not Washington that answered the call. It was Havana. Cuban doctors arrived in communities that had never seen a specialist, in regions where the nearest clinic was a day’s journey away. They did not come on short-term contracts with generous compensation packages. They came under the banner of solidarity — a word that has grown unfashionable in an era of transactional diplomacy, but which once meant something real.

When classrooms across this country sat empty for want of teachers, Cuban educators filled them. When Guyanese students had neither the finances nor the connections to access quality higher education, Cuban scholarships opened doors that would otherwise have remained permanently shut. The professionals produced by those opportunities — the doctors, engineers, teachers, and public servants who have contributed to this country’s development — are a living monument to what that partnership meant.

That relationship was built not on oil or military strategy or leverage. It was built on the simple, radical idea that a small nation should help another small nation because it is right to do so. Cuba asked for nothing that Guyana could not give. And for decades, Guyana benefited enormously from that generosity.

Now, the man who leads this country stands on the deck of the vessel most associated with the power that has tormented Cuba, and he poses for photographs.

 The Captured Head of State

There is a phrase in the language of postcolonial political analysis: state capture. It typically refers to the corruption of institutions by private interests. But there is another form of capture — subtler, more insidious — in which a leader becomes so thoroughly absorbed into the worldview, the ambitions, and the validation framework of a more powerful foreign patron that he loses the ability to see himself, his country, and its history through his own eyes.

Irfaan Ali has the look of a man so captured.

Watch how he performs on the international stage. Watch the eagerness to be seen in proximity to American military and economic power. Watch the carefully calibrated language that never discomforts Washington, never challenges the prevailing orthodoxies of the hemisphere’s dominant power. Watch how his government’s rhetoric has quietly drifted from the Non-Aligned tradition that once defined Caribbean and Caricom foreign policy, toward something that increasingly resembles client-state diplomacy dressed up as strategic partnership.

A leader grounded in his own history does not need to perform allegiance to the powerful. A leader who remembers where he came from does not need to be told that gratitude is a political value, not merely a personal virtue. A leader with a genuine foreign policy vision would know that the strength of small nations lies precisely in their ability to maintain relationships across ideological lines — to be friends with everyone without being owned by anyone.

But Ali does not appear to know this. Or if he knows it, he does not appear to care.

 Pragmatism Is Not the Alibi It Pretends to Be

The apologists will invoke pragmatism. They always do. They will say that Guyana must protect its oil wealth, that it faces real security threats, that aligning with the United States is a matter of national survival. They will speak of Venezuela, of regional instability, of the need for a powerful friend.

All of this contains a measure of truth. No serious analyst denies that Guyana’s security environment has changed dramatically with the discovery of oil, or that the country requires credible defence arrangements. The United States is a natural partner in that equation, and engagement with American military forces is not, by itself, a matter for condemnation.

But pragmatism is not a moral blank cheque. It does not erase obligation. It does not permit a government to court a new patron with such theatrical enthusiasm that it implicitly signals contempt for an old friend. It does not excuse the complete absence of any balancing gesture, any acknowledgment, any word of continued respect for the nation that staffed Guyana’s hospitals when Washington was indifferent to their condition.

If Ali’s government had paired its American engagement with even a quiet reaffirmation of Guyana’s relationship with Cuba — a statement, a visit, a diplomatic expression of continued solidarity — the Nimitz photograph would have read differently. It would have read as the act of a confident, balanced statesman navigating a complex world. Instead, it reads as the act of a man who has decided which side his bread is buttered on, and who no longer feels the need to pretend otherwise.

That is not pragmatism. That is opportunism. And in a region with a long memory of what opportunism costs small nations, it is a dangerous and shameful thing.

 Memory as a Political Obligation

There is a broader principle at stake here, one that extends beyond Guyana’s relationship with any single country

A nation that allows its foreign policy to be dictated entirely by present-tense power calculations — that discards old alliances the moment they become inconvenient, that forgets the names of those who stood with it in its hour of need — is a nation that cannot be trusted. It signals to every future partner: we will abandon you too, when the calculus changes. It hollows out the very concept of international solidarity, replacing it with pure transaction.

For Guyana — a small, developing nation navigating a world in which it is perpetually at risk of being overwhelmed by larger powers — this is not merely an ethical failure. It is a strategic one. The nations that earn respect in the international community are not those that grovel most effectively before the powerful. They are those that demonstrate consistency, principle, and the kind of moral seriousness that makes them reliable actors. Guyana once had a claim to that reputation. The Nimitz photograph puts it in question.

 The Image He Should Carry

President Ali would do well to remember a different image than the one now circulating from the Nimitz.

He should remember the image of a Cuban doctor in the Guyanese interior, treating patients who had no other option. He should remember the image of a Cuban teacher in a Guyanese classroom, shaping minds that would go on to build this country’s institutions. He should remember the image of a Guyanese student arriving in Havana on a scholarship, with nothing but promise and the generosity of a small island nation that asked nothing in return but solidarity.

Those images built Guyana. They deserve more than to be quietly retired the moment a more glamorous partnership becomes available.

A head of state who has forgotten this has not merely made a diplomatic misstep. He has revealed something about his character — about what he values, what he remembers, and what he is willing to discard when the lights are bright and the cameras are rolling.

In the end, how a leader treats those who helped him when he was weak tells you everything about who he is when he is strong.

On the deck of the USS Nimitz, Irfaan Ali told us exactly who he is

The 592 Guardian publishes independent commentary on Guyanese civic and political affairs.*