within and work for peace and justice in our world.
I would like to thank Dave and Nari, my sons, for assisting me on the computer and for their patience in getting the manuscript typed. I’m grateful to Sabi Jailall, my peer, partner and dharam patni for proofreading. Thanks to Chris Worsnop and especially Melissa Hughes for editing. And finally, thanks to Uncle Chabie Ramcharan for assistance with Hindi.
Peter Jailall
Power on the airwaves. Power on the waterways. Power from the fighter plane. You must be born again. No more planets to find. You must be born again. No more oceans to cross. You must be born again. No more bodies to trade. You must be born again. No more diamonds to dig. You must be born again. No more cotton to pick. You must be born again. No more whipping and pain. You must be born again. Power on the airwaves. Children die. Power on the waterways. Mothers die. Power from the fighter plane.
You must be born again.
Listen to our roll call
of those who died
on that dreadful September day,
following their American Dream:
Patrick Adams
Leslie Arnold Austin
Rudy Bacchus
Kris Romeo Bishundauth
Pamela Boyce
Annette Datarom
Babita Guman Nizam Hafiz
Ricknauth Jhagganauth
Charles Gregory Jolin
Bowanie Devi Kemraj
Sarab Khan
Amerdauth Luchman
Shevonne Meutis
Narendra Nath
Marcus Neblett
Hardai Parbhu
Ameena Rasool
Shiv Sankar
Sita Sewnarine
Karini Singh
Rosham Singh
Astrid Sohan
Joyce Stanton
Patricia Staton
Vanava Thompson
These are our dedicated,
hard-working country people,
who travelled from South to North
to savour just a small bite
of the Big Apple.
We will always remember them.
It was an ordinary September morning
just before the Autumn leaves
began to fall.
I sat horrified, speechless
in the privacy of my living room
watching the twin towers
fall.
I watched half-naked, innocent people
parachuting in panic, plunging
to escape death
only to splatter and sprawl
like shot eagles.
I watched brave, dedicated people
selflessly swarm into danger,
defying death
then taken down one by one
falling
in the line of duty.
This circumcision
at our gate,
this bleeding initiation into terror
completed a crucifixion;
painful double spear thrusts
in our side.
After witnessing
wicked deeds of wicked men,
I walked,
escaped my living room
for the green open park.
I watched chipmunks and squirrels
jump and fall so playfully
up and about the maple trees.
Clouds of white seagulls
sailing, silently circling
in our open, dangerous sky.
My faith restored,
I left the park
inhabited by God’s harmless creatures,
returned to the privacy
of my living room
to reflect and compose myself.
And when September comes again
just before the Autumn leaves
begin to fall,
I will remember.
My Ajah, handsome, strong and proud,
was an estate-bound, cane-cutting coolie.
Banging juice for the white sahib,
from sunrise to sunset.
The hot morning sun glittered
