Guyana’s aviation history is not a relic to be admired—it is a roadmap we are failing to follow.
From its humble beginnings in 1939, when British Guiana Airways stitched together isolated riverine communities with amphibious aircraft, aviation in Guyana was never a luxury. It was a necessity. It connected the hinterland to the coast, enabled medical access, supported commerce, and ultimately became a pillar of national development. By the time Guyana Airways emerged as the national flag carrier in 1966, it was more than an airline—it was a declaration of sovereignty, capability, and ambition.
Today, we boast of having one of the most modern and rapidly expanding airports in the Caribbean and Latin America. But that boast rings hollow. An airport without a national airline is infrastructure without strategy.
The story of Guyana Airways proves that state-supported aviation is not only viable but essential in a country defined by geography, resource expansion, and uneven development. For decades, the airline connected interior communities like Lethem, Mabaruma, and Kamarang—areas that remain economically critical today, particularly as Guyana’s oil wealth and extractive industries push deeper into the hinterland. Market forces now demand—not discourage—the return of a national carrier. Guyana is no longer a small, struggling economy. It is one of the fastest-growing economies in the world. Passenger traffic is rising. Business travel is surging. Diaspora links to New York, Toronto, and the Caribbean are stronger than ever.
Tourism is expanding. Cargo demand—particularly for energy, agriculture, and mining—is increasing. Yet, we remain dependent on foreign carriers to move our people, control our pricing, and dictate our connectivity. That is not a position of strength. It is a structural vulnerability. Critics will point to the collapse of Guyana Airways in 1999 as a cautionary tale. They are not wrong—but they are incomplete. The airline failed under a very different economic reality: high debt, weak management structures, and a limited market.
None of those conditions define Guyana today. What failed then was not the concept of a national airline—it was its execution. Modern aviation models offer alternatives that did not exist in the 1990s: public-private partnerships, strategic alliances, code-sharing agreements, and lean fleet operations. A reimagined national carrier does not have to replicate the past. It must be built for the future—efficient, commercially driven, and strategically aligned with national development goals.
The question is no longer whether Guyana can afford a national airline. The question is whether we can afford not to have one.
Without a national carrier, Guyana forfeits control over critical aspects of its economic expansion—airlift capacity, route development, pricing competitiveness, and emergency response capability. We risk becoming a transit point rather than a hub, a customer rather than a competitor.
A country positioning itself as a regional energy powerhouse cannot outsource its aviation backbone indefinitely. Reinstating a national airline is not about nostalgia. It is about sovereignty, economic leverage, and strategic foresight. It is about ensuring that the same spirit that once used amphibious aircraft to reach remote communities now drives a modern aviation enterprise capable of connecting Guyana to global markets on its own terms.
We have the demand. We have the infrastructure. We have the economic momentum.
What we need now is the political will.
https://i0.wp.com/592guardian.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/05/img_0283.jpg?fit=1170%2C756&ssl=17561170Editorhttps://592guardian.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/img_9918-300x150.pngEditor2026-05-22 09:25:472026-05-22 09:25:47Guyana Can’t Be a First-Class Airport with a Third-Class Aviation Strategy
Three years ago on May 21st nineteen children died in a school dormitory that had padlocked grilles over its windows and doors and no fire extinguishers, no sand buckets, no meaningful safety measures of any kind. The building did not fail on its own. It failed because the state that built it, funded it, and bore responsibility for the children sleeping inside it never ensured the most basic conditions for their survival. That is not an allegation. That is a fact established in every legal filing now before the courts.
What followed was, if anything, worse. In the acute grief of July 2023, while parents were still burying their children, a delegation of government officials descended on Mahdia. Among them was the Attorney General, Anil Nandlall. Among them also — and this fact demands to be stated plainly — was an individual named Keoma Griffith, presented to the bereaved families as counsel. He was not their counsel. He had arrived with the State.
WHAT THE PARENTS WERE TOLD
“Sign this agreement or you have nothing else to get from the government.” — State officials to bereaved parents, as reported in sworn accounts before the courts “They told us not to discuss the details of the agreement with anyone. We didn’t get any legal advice.” — A parent of one of the nineteen victims, as reported by Stabroek News “I feel guilty, like I sold my child’s life for 5 million.” — A mother, on the $5 million settlement signed without independent legal advice
The Attorney General told at least one parent that the government could not be sued because it did not light the fire. What he did not explain — and what the families were in no position to interrogate, having just buried children — was that liability does not require lighting a match. It requires a duty of care. And the state’s duty to those children in that dormitory could not have been clearer or more thoroughly abandoned.
The agreements the parents were pressed to sign contained a clause absolving the government of liability. Parents were explicitly told not to share the details. No independent attorney was in that room to advise them. And yet the agreements were signed — because grief, powerlessness, and the explicit threat of receiving nothing at all are extraordinarily effective instruments of coercion.
ESTABLISHED FACTS → Nineteen children died in the Mahdia dormitory fire on May 21, 2023. → The facility had padlocked, grilled windows and doors with no emergency egress. → No fire extinguishers or sand buckets were present on the premises. → In July 2023, parents signed $5M-per-child agreements without independent legal counsel. → Agreements included clauses absolving the government of liability. → Parents were told not to discuss the agreement’s terms with anyone. → The individual presented as families’ “counsel,” Keoma Griffith, travelled with the State delegation — not independently of it. → Keoma Griffith was subsequently appointed Minister of Labour and Manpower Planning. → A High Court has since set aside one such agreement, signed under duress, clearing the way for independent judicial valuation. → Claims filed on behalf of 11 families now exceed $400 million per child.
THE REWARD FOR SERVICES RENDERED Keoma Griffith was not a prominent political figure before July 2023. He was present at that meeting in Mahdia in a capacity that, to the grieving parents, appeared to be legal representation. He was not representing them. He was present with — and on the side of — the government whose liability was the very subject of the agreements being signed. That is not the role of independent counsel. That is the role of a State facilitator. That same Keoma Griffith has since been elevated to the Cabinet as Minister of Labour and Manpower Planning. He now stands at the intersection of protest, workers’ rights, and state authority — and he is, at this very moment, doing what he has apparently been hired to do: serving the government’s interests over those of the people who needed protection. The Mahdia families needed protection in July 2023. Workers need protection today. The pattern is consistent.
WHERE THINGS STAND NOW ▸ May 21, 2023 — Nineteen children die in the Mahdia dormitory fire. The facility had no functioning fire safety measures and exits were obstructed. ▸ July 3, 2023 — AG Nandlall, Keoma Griffith, and other officials visit Mahdia. Parents are told to sign $5M agreements or “have nothing.” No independent legal counsel is present. Agreements contain liability waivers. Parents are told not to discuss the terms.
Copy of the contract — families were forced to sign
2024–2025 — Attorneys Darren Wade and Eusi Anderson file legal challenges. Wade represents 11 families from Micobie and Chenapau, with claims exceeding $400M per child. Anderson secures a High Court ruling setting aside one coerced agreement. ▸ May 2025 — International psychiatric experts evaluate survivors to document ongoing trauma. Families report the government has abandoned pledges to build memorials and secure burial grounds.
The High Court’s decision to set aside the agreement signed by Valerie Carter — whose twin daughters perished — is not just a legal development. It is a judicial acknowledgment that what happened in that room in Mahdia was not a fair settlement. It was a transaction conducted under duress, facilitated by a government that used grief, desperation, and the threat of destitution to close out its liability for nineteen dead children.
The State has also failed to compensate survivors who carry physical injuries and severe psychological trauma. It has not built the memorials it promised. It has not secured the burial grounds it pledged. These are not oversights. They are the predictable behaviour of an administration that, from the very night of the fire, has treated accountability as a threat to be managed rather than an obligation to be met.
The families who refused to be silenced deserve to be acknowledged clearly on this anniversary. The High Court ruling that cracked the wall the government built around its own liability, and the $400 million-per-child claims that refuse to reduce a child’s life to an administrative line item, are not merely legal proceedings. They are acts of resistance against a pattern of state impunity.
Nineteen children should be alive today. They are not, because a government facility failed them in every way a facility can fail. The administration’s response — dispatching officials to seal the grief of parents before it could become litigation, and then rewarding the facilitator of that operation with a Cabinet seat — is its own indictment. The courts are now writing a different ending. And this publication will be watching every word of it.
https://i0.wp.com/592guardian.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/05/img_0141-9.png?fit=1374%2C768&ssl=17681374Editorhttps://592guardian.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/img_9918-300x150.pngEditor2026-05-22 08:29:412026-05-22 08:29:41THEY BOUGHT SILENCE FOR $5 MILLION. NOW THE COURTS ARE LISTENING.
The United States Department of Justice has formally indicted former Cuban leader Raúl Castro on multiple counts, including four counts of murder, two counts related to the destruction of aircraft, and one count of conspiracy to kill U.S. nationals—an unprecedented legal move against a former head of state in the Western Hemisphere.
The indictment, announced decades after the alleged acts, signals a dramatic escalation in the United States’ willingness to pursue criminal accountability for incidents rooted in Cold War-era hostilities. It places Washington on a legally complex and diplomatically fraught path. Despite the gravity of the charges, the question of enforcement remains immediate and unresolved. Cuba does not recognize U.S. jurisdiction over its former officials, and there is no functional extradition pathway that would compel Havana to surrender Castro. In practical terms, this makes the prospect of a U.S. courtroom proceeding highly unlikely.
At 94 years old, Castro’s age and health also raise serious questions about the feasibility of any trial, even in the unlikely event that jurisdiction were secured. Equally significant are the geopolitical implications. Any attempt by the United States to detain Castro outside established legal frameworks would risk severe international backlash and further destabilize already strained relations in the region. There is, at present, no credible indication that this development signals military action or any form of invasion, despite inevitable speculation.
What this indictment does represent is a sharp reassertion of U.S. legal reach into unresolved historical conflicts—transforming long-standing political grievances into prosecutable offenses. Whether this action advances justice or deepens geopolitical fault lines will depend on what follows next.
For the Caribbean and Latin America, the implications are immediate and profound. This is no longer a matter of history—it is a live legal and diplomatic confrontation with uncertain consequences.
THE Hydrometeorological Service of Guyana (Hydromet) has issued a fresh flood risk advisory, warning that unstable weather conditions, including heavy rainfall and thunderstorms, will persist across the country through the weekend, with elevated flood risks expected to continue until Sunday, May 24, 2026.
In Special Information Bulletin #5, released on Tuesday, Hydromet indicated that all regions are likely to experience significant rainfall as Tropical Wave #4 continues to influence the area before exiting on May 20.
According to the agency, the Inter-Tropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ) is projected to reorganise over Guyana shortly thereafter, leading to another surge in rainfall activity by Saturday and Sunday. “The latest forecast model outputs indicate that all regions are likely to be impacted by significant rainfall until May 20, 2026,” the bulletin stated. Hydromet noted that while a brief reduction in rainfall is expected on May 21 and 22, weather conditions are forecast to deteriorate again heading into the weekend.
“With the exception of May 21 and 22, 2026, the risk of flooding, particularly in low-lying and poorly drained areas, remains high until May 24, 2026,” the agency warned. Rainfall accumulations between 20 mm and 50 mm are anticipated within a 12-hour period through Wednesday, while heavier rainfall ranging from 25 mm to 75 mm over a 24-hour period is expected on Saturday and Sunday.
Residents are being urged to prepare for widespread rainfall, thunderstorms, strong winds, elevated water levels, saturated soils, and reduced visibility during periods of intense showers. Hydromet cautioned that these conditions may result in localised flooding, hazardous driving due to water accumulation on roadways, disruptions to outdoor activities, and potential damage to infrastructure.
Additionally, thunderstorms may bring lightning, gusty winds, and the possibility of uprooted trees, while some areas could face an increased risk of mudslides. Providing further meteorological insight, the agency noted that a tropical wave along 60W near the Windward Islands remains nearly stationary, contributing to enhanced convection across the region.
“A tropical wave along 60W is approaching the Windward Islands south of 16N, and is almost stationary,” the bulletin stated, adding that atmospheric conditions are expected to briefly weaken on May 21 and 22 before strengthening again.
The National Weather Watch Centre has indicated that it will continue to closely monitor the system and issue additional updates as conditions evolve.
When you’ve spent your life fighting hunger and sanctions, a message that says “We’ll buy your ticket, and you’ll pay for it by working” feels like a door opening to salvation.
Instead, for many Cubans, Venezuelans, and Haitians workers arriving in Guyana, that door closes into a cell.
One Cuban migrant told us ,”they said it would take eight months to repay the passage. I thought, I can do that. But when I landed, they took my passport. No explanation. Just gone.They put us in a room with no privacy, no air, no light. And by morning, we were in a van heading to work — construction today, illegal mining tomorrow, then construction again. We worked like machines.”
Our investigative team traced the trail of these “opportunities” through social media — Facebook ads, Instagram reels, and encrypted WhatsApp groups promoting “Passage to Guyana: Work and Pay Later” schemes. The operators behind them frequently pose as travel facilitators or small business agents, but there is little evidence of legal registration or oversight.
Guyana’s labor laws contain no comprehensive framework for regulating foreign recruitment agencies. Once migrant workers arrive, they often enter a zone of legal limbo — neither documented employees nor formal residents.That legal vacuum gives cover to an emerging economy of “labor exploitation” operating under the sheen of development.
In interviews, multiple migrants described confiscation of identification documents, wage withholding, verbal abuse, and threats of abandonment in remote areas. One Venezuelan worker said, “They keep us quiet with fear. Who will we go to? The police? They are friends with the same people who brought us.”
The Cuban man who shared his story recalls when the illusion finally broke. “After eight months, I said, ‘I already paid.’ They laughed. They said I still owed for food, for transport, for everything. That’s when I knew — there was never an end.”
He spent a year and a half in what he calls “hell.” Two young women who traveled with him disappeared shortly after arrival. “We rode together in the van. After that day, gone. I don’t even want to think what happened to them.”
𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐢𝐥 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐦
Guyana’s economic transformation has created an insatiable demand for labor — in construction, mining, services, and agriculture. But while the state celebrates booming GDP, it has yet to implement a parallel plan for protecting those it draws from beyond its borders.
The irony is painful: a country once known for exporting its people now thrives on exploiting imported desperation. In the race to modernize, some have turned poverty into a resource — harvesting it from across the Caribbean and Latin America.
There is historical symmetry here. During the 19th-century gold rush in the Yukon, men rushed to the Klondike chasing riches — few found gold, but many left empty, broken, or buried. Today’s migrant workers chase a similar illusion: that Guyana’s oil-age promise will trickle down to them. But the only ones guaranteed profit are the brokers who sell them that dream.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲
When asked about these abuses, officials shrug and point to jurisdictional ambiguity. “We need more data,” one senior agency source said. “We can’t regulate what we can’t track.” But such deflections only reinforce the complicity: a silence that legitimizes exploitation because it serves a convenient shortage of labor.
Private businesses that benefit from these schemes operate without meaningful oversight. Reports reach the authorities about “foreign construction teams” living in inhumane conditions, but investigations rarely follow. The cases fall between ministries — Labor calls it “immigration’s problem,” Immigration calls it “private enterprise.”
And so the racket thrives, protected by institutional paralysis.
There is, of course, a geopolitical dimension. Many Cuban migrants are politically stranded — unable to regularize elsewhere because of travel restrictions and sanctions. Some arrive through third countries like Suriname or Trinidad, smuggled across porous borders. For them, Guyana’s open frontier offers a semblance of safety — until that safety becomes servitude.
𝐀 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲 𝐯𝐚𝐜𝐮𝐮𝐦 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭
Guyana’s government has often said it welcomes “regional integration and cooperation,” but genuine integration requires regulation. Without a migrant worker policy that codifies rights, sets working-hour limits, guarantees wage enforcement, and criminalizes debt bondage, the country risks institutionalizing modern slavery under the banner of development.
Civil society and trade unions have repeatedly called for labor inspections and migrant registries. But in the haze of oil wealth and political self-congratulation, migrant workers remain invisible. The public seldom sees them. They live on the margins, housed in makeshift compounds, transported in silence, and dismissed when they collapse.
And yet, without them, many construction projects stall. Roads, bridges, and private housing complexes depend on their sweat. Migrant labor has become the ghost fuel of Guyana’s “new economy.”
Undoing this will require more than rhetoric. It demands enforcement mechanisms — cross-border cooperation, embassy oversight, and real-time reporting structures that allow migrants to file complaints safely. It requires that passports never become bargaining chips and that the phrase “work for passage” be recognized for what it is: coercion.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞
When the Cuban worker finally escaped — slipping through the border into Brazil and surrendering himself to the Federal Police — he said a weight lifted. “After one and a half years, I felt freedom again,” he told us. “And I promised myself that if I ever saw another ad saying ‘work now, pay later,’ I’d tell everyone to run.”
Guyana’s rise must not be built on the backs of people running from hell. If we are to call ourselves an oil nation of promise, we must also be a nation of conscience.
The government must act — not out of charity, but justice. Transparency in recruitment. Legal documentation for foreign laborers. Sanctions for traffickers and businesses that exploit. Public awareness campaigns that warn potential migrants of the schemes thriving in our midst.k
These individuals did not come to steal jobs; they came to save themselves. Instead, many end up building the dreams of others while losing their own.
Beyond GDP: a test of morality
As Guyana stands at the threshold of transformation, we must decide what kind of nation we wish to be. One that counts success in barrels and contracts, or one that measures it in dignity and human worth?
Economic growth without ethical governance is just another gold rush — glittering, intoxicating, and ultimately cruel,
The Cuban worker’s warning echoes across borders: “Not all that glitters is gold. Some of it is a trap to steal your life.”
Guyana must ensure that the promise of development does not become someone else’s prison.
Editor’s Note : This article was first published on April 27, 2026, after we were contacted by the victims via social media. This establishes TIP well before EKAA HRIM surfaced. We believe it is worth revisiting to assess possible complacency by the AHJ.
Washington, D.C. — The U.S. Department of Justice has quietly amended a controversial agreement establishing a $1.776 billion compensation fund, inserting a provision that permanently bars the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) from auditing former President Donald Trump, his family, and associated business entities.
The addendum, signed by Acting Attorney General Todd Blanche and published on the Department’s website, states that the government is “forever barred” from examining any tax filings submitted by Trump-related individuals and companies prior to the agreement. The amendment follows the administration’s announcement of the compensation fund, which was created after Trump agreed to withdraw a $10 billion lawsuit against the IRS and other federal entities. Reports indicate that IRS officials had advised against settling the case, raising concerns about possible political interference in the decision.
The fund itself has drawn significant criticism for its lack of transparency and oversight. It will be administered by a five-member panel whose members serve at the discretion of the president and can be dismissed at will. The agreement does not require public disclosure of recipients or the criteria used for disbursement. During a Senate hearing, lawmakers sharply questioned the legality and ethics of the arrangement. Senator Chris Van Hollen described the fund as “an outrageous, unprecedented slush fund,” citing its broad scope and lack of accountability.
Blanche confirmed under questioning that there are no restrictions on who may apply for compensation, including individuals convicted in connection with the January 6 attack on the U.S. Capitol. While he stated that Trump and his sons would not receive payouts, the agreement does not explicitly prohibit them from filing claims.
The agreement outlines that the fund will submit quarterly confidential reports to the attorney general detailing payouts and recipients. However, Blanche asserted that information would eventually become public through reporting mechanisms and Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) requests, despite language indicating confidentiality.
The development has intensified scrutiny over the agreement, with critics warning that it raises serious questions about governance, transparency, and the rule of law.
One man is dead. Thirty-seven others say they are trapped—without pay, without passports, and without a way out.
If the accounts emerging from a mining operation run by Ekaa Hrim Earth Resources Management are substantiated, then Guyana is not dealing with a labour dispute. It is confronting allegations consistent with forced labour and human trafficking—unfolding in real time, under the watch of the State.
The men, speaking on camera, allege that they have been denied adequate food and water, gone unpaid for months, and had their passports confiscated. Several report being told they must pay US$5,000 to secure their release. Some further allege that threats were made against them, including by individuals they identified as members of the Guyana Police Force.
Sarju Bhaskar
One of those men, Mr. Shekhar Chatri (also reported as Chetri), is now dead.
At this stage, the question is no longer what the workers are saying. The question is what the Government of Guyana is doing. Minister of Labour Joseph Hamilton cannot afford silence or delay. The allegations, as described, align directly with indicators of trafficking under the Trafficking in Persons Act No. 2 of 2005. This demands immediate intervention—on-site inspection, worker protection, and enforcement action where warranted.
Minister of Home Affairs Onedige Waldron, under whose portfolio the Trafficking in Persons Unit operates, must ensure that this matter is treated as a potential criminal investigation, not an administrative inconvenience. The Unit exists for precisely these scenarios. Its response—or lack thereof—will be read as a measure of the State’s seriousness about combating trafficking.
The Guyana Police Force, already named in allegations by the workers themselves, cannot be left to operate without independent scrutiny. Where there are claims of police involvement or intimidation, the Police Complaints Authority must be engaged immediately, and any implicated ranks removed from operational proximity to the case pending investigation.
And President Irfaan Ali cannot remain a distant observer. The President stood at the commissioning of this very enterprise, lending it the authority and legitimacy of the State. That moment matters now. Public endorsement carries public responsibility. The Office of the President must ensure that no entity operating under that umbrella is permitted to violate the law with impunity.
This is not about presuming guilt. It is about demanding accountability. Ekaa Hrim Earth Resources Management is not an unknown operator. It controls over a thousand acres of leased land, operates across multiple sectors, and is institutionally connected, including through publicly acknowledged ties to Texila American University under the leadership of Sarju Bhaskar. This is a company embedded within Guyana’s formal economic and regulatory structure.
Which raises an unavoidable question for the Guyana Geology and Mines Commission (GGMC): what oversight has been exercised over this concession? What inspections have been conducted? What compliance failures allowed these alleged conditions to persist to the point of death?
If the State cannot account for conditions on licensed land, then licensing itself becomes meaningless. Beyond the immediate human cost, there is a wider national consequence. Allegations of passport confiscation, debt demands, and restricted movement fall squarely within internationally recognized indicators of trafficking under the UN Palermo Protocol. If validated, this case places Guyana at risk of being associated—not rhetorically, but evidentially—with systems of exploitation it has long claimed to reject.
That reputational damage is not abstract. It affects investor confidence, international partnerships, and the country’s standing in global human rights assessments. But more importantly, it speaks to who we are willing to be. Guyana’s history carries the weight of labour exploitation—from slavery to indentureship—systems built on control, coercion, and the denial of freedom. The patterns described by these workers, if proven, are not relics of that past. They are warnings in the present. The difference now is that the law is clear, the institutions exist, and the evidence is being recorded in real time.
What remains uncertain is whether those in authority will act.
The Government does not have the luxury of cautious delay. It has an obligation to move—immediately, transparently, and without regard to political or personal association. Secure the workers. Return their documents. Ensure they are paid what they are owed. Investigate the death. Pursue criminal liability where the evidence leads. Anything less risks sending a message that in Guyana, exploitation can take root behind the façade of legitimacy—and that those responsible may rely on proximity to power to shield them from consequence.
One man is already dead. There are others still inside that operation.
What is done next will determine whether this country confronts this moment—or becomes defined by it.
https://i0.wp.com/592guardian.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/05/img_0176.jpg?fit=1200%2C799&ssl=17991200Editorhttps://592guardian.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/img_9918-300x150.pngEditor2026-05-18 08:57:472026-05-18 08:57:47Trapped, Unpaid, and One Dead: Guyana’s Test of Accountability
In August 2022, Guyana’s National Assembly passed the Industrial Hemp Act, clearing the legal pathway for what was touted as a transformative new industry. Nearly four years later, that “industry” exists nowhere but in speeches, interviews, and policy documents.
What exists instead is a carefully constructed illusion of progress. The Government has identified more than 50,000 acres of land for hemp cultivation. Regions Six and Ten have been singled out. International partners, including India, have reportedly expressed interest. The Cabinet has even approved members of the Guyana Industrial Hemp Regulatory Authority.
𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒆𝒕, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅.
This is not a minor administrative delay—it is a fundamental breakdown. By law, no one can cultivate, process, research, or engage in any hemp-related activity without a licence issued by that very Authority. In other words, the entire industry is legally frozen until the Government activates the body it already approved.
At the same time, Agriculture Minister Zulfikar Mustapha now argues that cultivation cannot begin without a processing plant. On its face, this is a reasonable technical point. Hemp is not a crop you can simply harvest and stockpile; without processing, it has little commercial value.
𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒑𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒚.
If processing is a prerequisite, why—four years after legalisation—has no facility been established? Why was land identified before processing capacity secured? Why were investors encouraged before the regulatory and industrial backbone was in place? The uncomfortable truth is that Guyana is attempting to build an industry backwards.
The Government has created a circular dependency of its own making: no cultivation without processing, and no processing without cultivation. The result is predictable stagnation, disguised as careful planning.
Meanwhile, the numbers being used to promote hemp demand closer examination. The public is told that hemp can produce “100,000 to 150,000” different products. While technically true in a broad, global sense, this figure is meaningless without a defined national strategy. Successful hemp industries do not chase everything—they specialise. Textiles, construction materials, seed oils, pharmaceuticals—each requires different infrastructure, expertise, and markets.
𝑮𝒖𝒚𝒂𝒏𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒆.
Instead, the narrative leans heavily on scale—50,000 acres, billions in global value—without addressing the mechanics of participation. Where are the certified low-THC seeds? Where are the testing labs to enforce the 0.3 per cent THC limit mandated by law? How will farmers navigate a licensing system that does not yet function? What financing structures exist for small and medium-scale producers expected to occupy these lands?
Even the legal framework, while necessary, underscores the dysfunction. Farmers face fines of $500,000 or imprisonment for operating without a licence, yet no licensing authority is operational to issue those permissions. Compliance is being demanded in a system that does not yet exist.
𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒓𝒆.
And while the Government points to international partnerships—particularly with India—as evidence of progress, these arrangements raise their own concerns. Without clear local content rules and ownership structures, Guyana risks repeating a familiar pattern: foreign capital builds the industry, foreign expertise controls it, and Guyanese stakeholders are left at the margins.
The irony is that the Government itself has acknowledged the correct approach. President Irfaan Ali has emphasized that hemp must be tied to value-added production and processing. That is precisely right.
Four years on, there is still no processing plant. No operational authority. No clear production timeline. No defined market focus. What remains is a cycle of announcements—“very shortly,” “in discussions,” “working with partners”—that substitutes language for action.
Until the regulatory authority is established, the processing facility is built, and a coherent production strategy is made public, the hemp sector will remain exactly what it is today: a paper industry, sustained by optimism and stalled by inaction.
𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒚. 𝑰𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚.
Because each unfulfilled promise erodes public trust, weakens investor confidence, and reinforces a growing perception that in Guyana, policy ambition too often outruns the capacity—or willingness—to deliver.
https://i0.wp.com/592guardian.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/05/img_0156.png?fit=1424%2C752&ssl=17521424Editorhttps://592guardian.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/img_9918-300x150.pngEditor2026-05-17 10:23:382026-05-17 10:23:38Guyana’s Hemp Illusion: Policy Without Production
Commissioner Giddings answered a Letter to the Editor, with a reassuring letter. We have seven unanswered questions. And Guyana deserves answers — not assurances.
WE READ Commissioner Aneal Giddings’ letter with the full attention it deserved — and then we read it again. It is well-written. It is confident. It cites legislation. It uses the word “trust” several times. But a letter that invokes trust, without producing the names, addresses, contact details and accountability mechanisms that would allow citizens to verify that trust, is not a safeguard. It is a press release.
The Commissioner told Guyanese that a Data Protection Act is in force, that a Data Protection Office is being established, that two companion laws work in harmony, that biometric cards meet ICAO standards, and that the system is safe. We do not dispute that these things may be true. What we dispute is that a letter — however eloquent — substitutes for institutional transparency.
So let us ask, plainly, what the letter did not answer.
The Commissioner spoke of a Commission being in place. Is he, alone, the entire Commission?
QUESTION 1:WHERE IS THE COMMISSION?
Commissioner Giddings signs his letter with a title. He does not provide the physical address of the Data Protection Office. He does not provide a phone number, an email address, or a complaints hotline. He does not direct the worried citizen — the very one whose letter prompted his response — to any website, portal or walk-in location where they can exercise the rights he says they have.
Citizens were told they have the right to know what data is held about them. They have the right to correct it. They have the right to request deletion. Fine. Then where, exactly, does a citizen go to exercise those rights? What is the address? What are the office hours? What is the name of the officer who receives such requests? These are not unreasonable questions. These are the basic institutional facts that separate a functioning regulatory body from a title on a letterhead.
QUESTION 2: WHO ELSE SITS ON THIS COMMISSION?
A “Commission” implies more than one person. The Data Protection Act envisions oversight. Oversight implies a body — not a solo operator, however capable. So the public deserves to know: who are the other members of the Data Protection Commission? Were they appointed? When? By whom? Do they have fixed terms? What are their professional qualifications? Have any of them ever worked for the entities they are now charged with regulating?
The Commissioner’s letter is written entirely in the first person. That is either a stylistic choice — or a structural admission. Which is it?
QUESTION 3: WHO IS THE GATEKEEPER OF THE DATA?
Commissioner Giddings confirms that the Digital Identity Card Registry falls “directly under the administration of his office.” That means the same office that promotes the digital ID system is also the office that polices it. This is a profound conflict of interest that deserves public scrutiny, not reassurance.
Who, specifically, has access to the biometric database? What government agencies? What private contractors? Under what authorisation framework does access occur? Is there a tiered access system? Is there a formal request process? Who approves access requests? And crucially — who watches the watchers?
An immutable public ledger of who accessed citizen data, when, and why — is not a radical idea. It is the minimum standard for a government serious about accountability.
QUESTION 4: IS THERE A PUBLIC AUDIT LEDGER?
In any credible data governance framework, access to sensitive citizen data is logged. Every query. Every download. Every transfer. The log is tamper-proof, time-stamped, and — in the most accountable systems — publicly auditable or subject to independent review.
Does such a ledger exist for Guyana’s Digital Identity Card Registry? If so, who audits it? How often? Are audit reports tabled in Parliament? Are they available to the public under the Right to Information Act? Or do access logs exist only as internal records, visible to the same agencies that are being overseen?
The Commissioner acknowledged that fears of political profiling, surveillance and commercial misuse are “not paranoid.” We agree. And the very acknowledgement makes the absence of a public audit trail more alarming, not less.
QUESTION 5:WHY NOT BLOCKCHAIN?
This is not a theoretical question. It is a structural one. Blockchain-based identity systems — deployed in Estonia, the UAE, and elsewhere — use decentralised, cryptographically secured ledgers that make it technically impossible to alter access records retroactively. Under such a system, if any official, agency or contractor accessed a citizen’s data, that access is permanently recorded on an immutable chain — visible to regulators, auditors and, in some architectures, citizens themselves. Guyana chose a centralised PKI-enabled system. That may be adequate. But the public was never told why blockchain was considered and rejected — or whether it was considered at all.
We are not blockchain evangelists. Technology is never a silver bullet. But the question deserves a substantive technical answer, not silence. If ICAO standards were cited as justification for the current architecture, then an explanation of why those standards preclude a distributed ledger — if they do — should accompany any public defence of the system.
Citizens whose biometric data is permanently enrolled in a national registry are entitled to know why the most tamper-resistant available architecture was or was not chosen for their protection.
QUESTION 6:WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THERE IS A BREACH?
The Commissioner’s letter does not mention data breaches. It does not outline the notification protocol if citizen data is compromised. It does not specify timelines for breach disclosure — to the affected individuals, to Parliament, or to the public. It does not describe what remedies are available to citizens whose data is leaked, stolen or misused.
These are not hypothetical scenarios. They are the central questions of any serious data protection framework. The European Union’s GDPR mandates breach notification within 72 hours. What does Guyana’s Act mandate? And has the Commissioner’s office established the technical capacity to detect a breach in the first place?
QUESTION 7:WHAT ARE THE PRIVATE CONTRACTORS’ OBLIGATIONS?
Commissioner Giddings asserts that private contractors handling public data are “legally bound” by the Act’s provisions. But legal obligation and operational accountability are different things. Which contractors currently have access to the registry? What are their names? Where are they incorporated? What contractual data protection clauses govern their engagement? What happens if they breach those clauses? Have any contractors been audited? Have any been found non-compliant?
The public has a right to know who, beyond government agencies, holds their fingerprints, their facial images and their personal identification data — and what remedies exist if that third party misuses it.
A letter that invokes trust without producing the facts that would allow citizens to verify that trust is not a safeguard. It is a press release.
WHAT WE ARE NOT SAYING
We are not saying the digital ID system is corrupt. We are not saying Commissioner Giddings is acting in bad faith. We are not opposing the modernisation of Guyana’s identity infrastructure, which is long overdue.
What we are saying is this: institutional trust is not declared. It is built. It is built through transparency, through publicly accessible information, through independent oversight with real teeth, and through accountability mechanisms that citizens can actually use — not just invoke in a letter to a newspaper.
The Commissioner said the system is “built on trust, transparency, accountability and genuine institutional capacity.” We hold him to those words. And we note, with respect, that trust is not demonstrated by writing about it. It is demonstrated by showing your work.
OUR CALL TO THE COMMISSIONER
We call on Commissioner Giddings to publish, within thirty days, the following:
The full physical address, telephone number, email address and operating hours of the Data Protection Office.
The names and qualifications of all members of the Data Protection Commission, their appointing authority, and their terms of tenure.
A complete list of government agencies and private contractors with current access to the Digital Identity Card Registry, and the legal basis for each grant of access.
The data access audit log framework: who logs access, how logs are stored, who audits them, and how citizens can request a review of access to their personal records.
A technical explanation of why a blockchain or distributed ledger architecture was or was not considered for the registry.
The breach notification protocol: timelines, responsible parties, and citizen remedies in the event of a data compromise.
The names and contractual data protection obligations of all private contractors currently engaged by the registry.
A step-by-step guide for citizens wishing to exercise their rights under the Act, including the right of access, correction and deletion.
Guyana’s digital future is indeed being built. Let it be built in the light.
https://i0.wp.com/592guardian.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/05/img_0133.png?fit=798%2C523&ssl=1523798Editorhttps://592guardian.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/img_9918-300x150.pngEditor2026-05-17 10:08:292026-05-17 10:08:29A Commission of One ?
Part 2 of 2: Retail Domination, Mining Control, and the Sovereignty Question Guyana Can No Longer Avoid
BY: Hem Kumar
𝙏𝙝𝙚 592 𝙂𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙣
In Part 1, we established the lie at the centre of the Chinese Association’s statement: that Guyanese workers are unwilling to perform the kind of demanding, weekend and holiday labour that Chinese-led operations apparently require. We showed, using evidence hiding in plain sight, that this claim collapses on contact with reality.
Now we follow the money. We follow the contracts. We follow the land. Because the trucking dispute — as explosive as it was — is not the story. It is the symptom of a story that has been unfolding across Guyana’s economy, sector by sector, for the better part of two decades.
And it is a story about who controls value, pricing, and long-term economic leverage in a country that is simultaneously one of the world’s fastest-growing oil economies and one of the most structurally exposed to foreign economic capture.
I. The Retail Conquest: From Georgetown to the Brazilian Border
It did not happen overnight. It rarely does. The expansion of Chinese-owned retail operations across Guyana followed a pattern that economic historians will recognise: entry at competitive prices, consolidation of market share, and gradual displacement of the local traders who could not absorb the sustained pressure.
In Agricola, a community south of Georgetown, the transformation has been visible and documented by residents. Chinese-operated supermarkets and hardware stores now anchor commercial strips where local small businesses once dominated. The pricing structures in these stores have, by multiple accounts, been set at levels that neighbourhood shop owners — the small men and women of Guyana’s informal commerce backbone — cannot match without operating at a loss.
The question this pricing raises is not one of healthy competition. It is:
How are these prices being sustained? Cross-subsidisation from operations elsewhere? Scale advantages built on supply chains with no Guyanese equivalent? Or something that a proper tax audit would find considerably more troubling?
Allegations of systematic tax evasion have circulated for years in Guyanese business and policy circles. These are not fringe claims. They are raised by credible voices in the private sector — people who have watched competitors operate at price points that make no arithmetic sense under normal tax compliance.
If those allegations are accurate, this is not a competition problem. This is a crime subsidising the displacement of Guyanese livelihoods.
Lethem: The Strategic Corridor at Stake
If Agricola represents retail displacement within a community, Lethem represents something considerably more serious: the economic colonisation of a strategic national corridor.
Lethem is not simply a border town. It is Guyana’s primary land gateway to Brazil — a route whose commercial importance will only grow as regional integration deepens and as Guyana’s oil revenues accelerate domestic demand. The town that controls the commercial infrastructure of Lethem influences the terms on which Guyanese goods, services, and businesses engage with the South American continental market.
Chinese commercial interests are now entrenched in Lethem — not merely in retail, but in property ownership and construction. This is not a temporary market presence. Property means permanence. Construction means the physical shape of the town is being determined, in part, by investors whose primary commercial allegiance lies elsewhere.
When future administrations seek to develop the Lethem corridor as a trade gateway, they may find the commercial ground already occupied, the terms already set, and the leverage already held by interests that did not ask Guyana’s permission to make it so.
II. Bosai and the Mining Model: Extract, Promise, Disappear
If you want to understand the full architecture of how Chinese corporate interests operate in Guyana, look at Bosai Minerals Group’s management of bauxite and manganese operations. It is the most thoroughly documented case available — and it is damning.
The record shows a recurring pattern:
Massive resource control secured. Bosai obtained rights over substantial bauxite and manganese reserves — strategic minerals with long-term value in China’s industrial supply chain. Guyana got investment promises.
Employment commitments made and broken. Targets for Guyanese employment were announced with the contracts. The targets were not met. The gap between what was promised and what was delivered has never been adequately accounted for.
Environmental failure at Matthews Ridge. The collapse of environmental standards at the Matthews Ridge manganese operation was not a minor compliance issue. It was a documented failure that left Guyanese communities and land bearing costs that Bosai has not adequately remediated.
Extraction continues. Local benefit does not. The minerals leave Guyana. The value they generate in Chinese industrial processes is not shared with the communities above which they were extracted.
Bosai is not an isolated anomaly. It is a case study in what happens when a resource-rich developing nation signs agreements without the enforcement architecture to hold foreign extractors accountable — and without the political will to exercise the leverage it theoretically holds.
“The minerals leave Guyana. The promises stay behind. What Bosai demonstrates is not bad luck — it is a business model.”
The Guyana Manganese Inc. (GMI) operations compound the picture. Multiple Chinese-linked entities have held positions in Guyana’s mineral sector, each operating under the broad diplomatic umbrella of “South-South cooperation” — a framing that has functioned, in practice, as a shield against the scrutiny that Western investors routinely face.
South-South cooperation is a meaningful concept when it delivers mutual benefit. When it delivers mineral extraction to China and environmental liability to Guyana, it is not cooperation. It is extraction with better branding.
III. The Infrastructure Paradox: Built by Guyanese, Owned by No One Local
The six regional hospitals built under Chinese contractor management are presented — in official communications and in the Association’s own framing — as evidence of partnership and goodwill. And they are real buildings. They serve real patients. The construction is not fiction.
But let us be precise about what these hospitals represent structurally.
They were financed through arrangements that deepen Guyana’s institutional reliance on Chinese state-linked contractors for future projects.
They were executed by foreign contractors who walked away with the technical expertise, the project management precedent, and the institutional relationships that future infrastructure contracts will favour.
The Guyanese workers who built them were paid. The Guyanese state did not inherit the contracting power.
Each completed project strengthens the case for the next Chinese-led contract, because familiarity and track record in a market are among the most powerful competitive advantages in infrastructure procurement.
This is the infrastructure paradox: Guyana is building its own dependency, one project at a time, with its own labour and its own money, for the long-term competitive advantage of foreign contractors.
A Guyanese construction firm that builds six hospitals is positioned to build the seventh. A Chinese firm that builds six hospitals with Guyanese labour is positioned to build the seventh, the eighth, and the road network connecting all of them — while Guyanese firms watch from the outside of contracts they helped fulfil.
IV. The Government’s Role: Enabler by Inaction
It would be convenient to place all responsibility for this situation on Chinese corporate actors. They are, after all, doing what corporate actors do: maximising their position within the rules and enforcement gaps they find. The more difficult question — the one that Guyanese voters and citizens are entitled to ask — is what their own government has done, or failed to do, while this pattern consolidated.
The answer, across administrations, is not flattering:
Regulatory oversight has been reactive, not preventative. Problems are addressed after damage is documented — environmental failures, employment shortfalls, market displacement — rather than being prevented by robust frameworks at the point of contract.
Tax enforcement has been inconsistent. When credible allegations of evasion circulate for years without prosecution, the message to compliant local businesses is clear: the rules apply differently depending on who you are and where your capital comes from.
Investment agreements have lacked reciprocity clauses. Chinese firms have operated in Guyana’s retail, mining, logistics, and infrastructure sectors with significant autonomy and expansion freedom. There is no evidence of comparable access secured for Guyanese businesses in China’s domestic market.
The narrative has been accepted rather than interrogated. “Foreign investment” has been treated as an uncomplicated good, when the evidence demands a far more nuanced assessment of who benefits, on what timeline, and at what structural cost.
The government of Guyana is not obligated to be hostile to Chinese investment. It is obligated to be a competent steward of Guyanese economic interests. Those are not the same thing, and conflating them has cost this country dearly.
V. The Reciprocity Question: What Does ‘Open for Business’ Actually Mean?
Chinese firms currently operate in Guyana across retail, mining, infrastructure, and logistics — with significant autonomy, expanding footprints, and the institutional support of a state-backed commercial apparatus that no Guyanese private business can replicate.
Now answer this: What would happen if a Guyanese entrepreneur attempted to open a supermarket chain in Shenzhen? A hardware store in Guangzhou? A logistics operation in the Pearl River Delta?
They would face licensing regimes, partnership requirements, foreign ownership caps, regulatory barriers, and an enforcement apparatus specifically designed to ensure that China’s domestic economy is not penetrated by foreign commercial interests the way Guyana’s has been.
China does not leave its economy open for others to do to it what is being done to Guyana. It protects its domestic market with a sophistication and determination that any serious nation should study and, where appropriate, replicate.
“China does not leave its economy open for others to do to it what is being done to Guyana. The question is why Guyana has left itself so exposed — and who decided that was acceptable.”
The issue is not whether Guyana should engage with China. Of course it should. China is a major power with capital, infrastructure capacity, and trade routes that a developing nation in Guyana’s position would be foolish to ignore entirely.
The issue is whether that engagement is structured to produce mutual benefit — or whether “open for business” has become a polite phrase for one-sided exposure. The evidence across retail, mining, infrastructure, and logistics suggests the latter. And the Chinese Association’s statement in the trucking dispute — the arrogant dismissal of Guyanese workers rather than any serious engagement with the structural concerns raised — tells you something important about whether those holding economic leverage here feel any obligation to justify themselves.
They do not. Not yet. Not unless Guyana demands it.
What Must Now Be Done
This analysis is not a call for xenophobia. It is not anti-Chinese. It is not a demand to expel investors or tear up agreements. It is a demand for something far simpler and far more powerful:
Enforce the tax laws without exception. Every business operating in Guyana — Chinese, Guyanese, American, Indian — must be subject to the same audit rigour. If that reveals evasion, prosecute it. Visibly. Publicly.
Renegotiate resource contracts with teeth. Employment targets must be binding, not aspirational. Environmental obligations must carry financial consequences. Guyana has leverage in its mineral wealth. It should use it.
Require reciprocity in future investment agreements. Any nation whose firms wish to operate freely in Guyana’s domestic market should be asked, plainly, what access they offer Guyanese businesses in return. The answer should be part of the public record.
Build Guyanese contracting capacity deliberately. Infrastructure projects funded by Guyanese resources must carry mandatory local contracting percentages that escalate over time. Not tokenism. Real transfer of capability.
Hold the Association publicly accountable. The statement attacking Guyanese workers deserves a formal, documented, public rebuttal from the government and private sector bodies. Silence in the face of that kind of narrative concedes the field.
The Verdict
Across retail, mining, infrastructure, and logistics, a consistent pattern emerges: local labour is used when it is needed and discarded from the narrative when it becomes inconvenient. Local businesses are displaced when competition intensifies. Regulatory systems have proven unable or unwilling to rebalance the field. And when Guyanese people dare to raise these concerns, they are told the problem is their own character.
That is the context in which the Chinese Association’s statement must be read. Not as a miscommunication. Not as a cultural misunderstanding. But as a precise and calculated attempt to shut down a legitimate economic conversation by attacking the credibility of the people trying to have it.
Guyanese workers built the hospitals. Guyanese workers staff the stores. Guyanese truckers moved the freight before anyone decided their sector needed “restructuring.”
This is not a country whose people need lectures on the dignity of labour from anyone. This is a country whose people are owed a serious accounting of why their economy is being harvested rather than built.
“Guyana is not poor in resources, in labour, or in ambition. It is poor only in the protection its institutions have offered its own people against those who would take everything and call it investment.”
That protection is not charity. It is governance. And it is long overdue.
This two-part analysis is based on reported observations across sectors, community accounts, and documented cases in the public record. It represents the views of the author and is intended to contribute to public discourse on economic sovereignty and investment accountability in Guyana.
