Children Stories by Janet Jagan

The Legend of The Enmore Martyrs

(Taken from "Children's Stories of Guyana's Freedom Struggles" by Janet Jagan)

Once, many years ago, in the sugar estate of Enmore on the East Coast of Demerara all the workers were on strike. They wanted more money so they could give their children better food, send them to school and buy them clothing. Also, they wanted their children to live in better conditions, and not in the old, broken-down logies. They wanted good water for their children to drink and decent places for them to play. The mothers and fathers who were on strike worked very hard in the sun and they wanted to be paid enough so that their children could lead a better life. All their thoughts were on their children and their future.

They had been on strike for many months, and in each sugar estate on the East Coast, they cooked their food together and served everyone equally. The children collected wood on the foreshore for the big cooking pots and helped their fathers or big brothers catch shrimps and fish for the "soup kitchen", as they called it.

On the historical day, June 16, 1948, the men of Enmore began to picket the factory, calling for the estate bosses to listen to their demands for more pay. Then the police with guns came to the factory compound. The people of Enmore heard the shots being fired. When they ran to the factory compound, they saw their brothers and fathers on the ground breeding. Many had been shot. Four were dead and another was dying. All the workers came out to help care the victims of the horrible shooting. Many were taken to hospital, where one later died of the gunshot wound.

The five sugar workers, later known as the Five Enmore Martyrs, were buried with the honours they deserved. Thousands of Guyanese carried their poor shot-up bodies from Enmore to Georgetown in the largest funeral procession in the country's history. The whole country protested the shooting.

And every year since then, without exception, sugar workers have gone to their tombs with flowers, remembering the sacrifice they made for all working people.

Remember their names well - Rambarran, Surujballi, Harry Jug, Pooran and Lala Bagee. They are our heroes, who died to help others.

It was at their graveside that the Father of Guyana's Independence, Cheddi Jagan, made a pledge that has guided him during his entire life. He said he would dedicate his life to the cause of the struggle of the Guyanese people against bondage and exploitation.

The Two Brave Girls

Bernadette was only nine years old. Her sister Bertina was 13. Both little girls lived with their mother and father and sisters and brothers in a small village in the hinterland of Guyana called Apoteri. They went to school every day and on Sundays and after school, they went with their mother and father to help on the farm, a little distance from where they lived. There they grew cassava and sometimes fruits and peanuts.

One day when Bertina and Bernadette came home from school, they saw their uncle, Anslimo who beckoned them. "Come with me", he said, "your mother told me to take you to the farm". The two girls followed him. But he did not go in the direction of the farm; he went the other way.

"Why are you going this way?" asked Bertina. "Shut your mouth and do as I say or I will hit you", said their uncle. Bertina and Bernadette, who were quiet children and always obeyed their parents and teachers, thought it best to follow their uncle's orders.

The uncle led them to the river and told them to get into a little boat which was already equipped with a hammock and some food. The children did as told and soon they were paddling in the
river. Now the children were frightened and began to cry. "You stop your crying or I'll throw you overboard." Uncle Ansilmo shouted. The two girls looked at each other. They could not get
close as Uncle Ansilmo put Bernadette in the front of the boat and Bertina in the back.

The boat landed before nightfall and they made a little clearing in the bush to spend the night. The girls slept on the ground and Uncle Ansilmo in the hammock which was strung between two trees. They ate cassava bread and dried fish which the uncle had brought in the boat.

For three days, they paddled on the river, until they reached Pakani Falls. There they camped again. There was no food left so they used a lighted Hiawa stick to attract fish near the shore, hitting them with sticks as they came close. These they roasted for dinner. In the morning, Uncle Ansilmo went into the bush for some wood and soon after, the two children heard a terrible noise. It was the growl of a jaguar and the screams of their uncle. "Run up that tree" shouted Bertina and the two climbed a tree. They sat there for hours, afraid to climb down. Uncle Ansilmo never came back. Later, Bernadette and Bertina went back to the camp site, built a big fire and slept in the hammock.

The next morning they set out walking through the jungle. They searched for food, sometimes finding a tree bearing fruit, which they picked and carried with them. For days the little girls walked through the thick bush, trying to keep near to the river bank for water and for fishing. One time when they were using the Hiawa stick to attract fish, they saw two alligators swimming in their direction. Bertina grabbed Bernadette's hand and quickly pulled her away from the river bank and into the bush, only to bump into a coiled snake who did not at all like being disturbed. The girls ran as fast as they could. But later they had to return to the spot to pick up the hammock in which they slept at night.

"I'm hungry", cried Bernadette. "Don't cry", pleaded Bertina, "We'll soon find someone to help us". They walked and walked. One day they came upon a camp site of some miners, but no one was there. They both sat down and cried. "Let's keep going" said Bertina. They walked and walked and at night, when it was dark, they huddled together in the hammock, trying to sleep
despite all the frightening forest noises. The two brave girls never gave up.

They kept trudging through the jungle for weeks until one day, they heard the noise of an engine. They ran and ran and at last, there was a camp of men. "Good afternoon," said Bertina to
the first person she saw. The man, a gold miner, was shocked. He could hardly speak, he was so surprised at seeing two little girls in the middle of the vast hinterland. "Where did you come
from?" he asked, but before he waited for an answer, he saw that they were hungry and needed help. "Come", he said and went to the cooking area and made each a cup of tea and milk. He was afraid to give them too much to eat, because he suspected that they were suffering from starvation, so he gave the little girls some biscuits and began talking to them.

How happy the children felt. The miner was from a village near their home. He knew their big brother and he could speak their language, Wapishiana. Bertina told the man, Cosmos Antone,
what had happened. Soon other miners returned to camp and they heard from the sisters about their ordeal.

Bertina could hear one of the miners talking about sending out a message for an airplane to come for the children. Some days later, the head of the camp, Mr. Gonsalves, put the children on a
plane which took them to Georgetown. There they were cared for and after doctors saw them, they were taken to hospital. And soon after that, they flew back home to Apoteri, but not before the President of Guyana saw them, hugged them up and said "What brave girls you are!"

When the plane circled the little village of Apoteri, Bernadette and Bertina could see from the sky, many people at the landing field. As the plane descended and landed, there were their parents, brothers and sisters and school friends, to welcome home the two brave girls.

A story to remember

(Written to her granddaughter Natasha on her 15th Birthday)

Your Grandfather and I had many beautiful holidays together, like Mongolia, Spain, Belize, Grenada, Tobago, Haiti and other places as well as trips - usually official - to Colombia, Guadeloupe, Jamaica, Cyprus, to name some. But one had the most exciting occurrence as well as a significant example of your Grandfather’s character. Your mother asked me to relate this story to you, so I take the occasion of your 15th birthday to do so.

It took place in 1964 in Trinidad where your Grandfather and I went for a holiday after an official trip to Jamaica. He was Premier then, and a friend had offered a cottage on a small river for a week. We gladly accepted the invitation and went with high hopes of a pleasant vacation after pretty rough goings-on at home.

It was a pleasant, simple cottage on the river and in the river was a small boat with an outboard engine. The first day there, we decided to take a ride in the boat and your Grandfather Cheddi wound the cord and gave a pull and off we went. We had little experience with such boats but felt confident and enjoyed the ride. We kept going on and on; soon we discovered that the river ran into the ocean and we were in heavier waters. Then the engine stopped. Your Grandfather began winding the cord and then pulling, to start the engine, but it didn’t work. He kept trying, but we could not get moving again. The little boat began drifting towards the shore. As we get closer, I saw that the shoreline was made up of sharp rocks, with no visible place to hold on to in case the boat smashed into the rocks. Your Grandfather never ever stopped in his efforts to get the outboard engine working. Just then, a large passenger boat could be seen not so far from us and I waved my arms. Someone waved back, but obviously they were unaware that we were in trouble, and the boat moved out of sight.

We drifted closer and closer to the sharp projecting rocks and I kept trying to imagine how we would grapple with that situation when it happened, which now seemed a matter of a few minutes.

Although your Grandfather and I were excellent swimmers, I could not see how we could save ourselves when the boat hit the rocks. During all this time, he never once stopped the process of winding the cord and pulling it.

At that time, I must confess, I became a little irritated at your Grandfather’s persistence in the face of futility and, if I remember correctly, made a cynical remark.

He paid no attention, but continued on what appeared to be his fruitless endeavours. We had just about reached the crash point and I was trying to figure out how we could survive, when it happened! He pulled the cord and this time the engine responded. The boat was back in action and we were saved just at the very last moment.

When I look back on that occurrence, I see how lucky we were to be alive. But maybe luck is not the right word. We were alive because your Grandfather never gave up. He flatly refused to give up and quite rightly used the only opportunity we had to get out of the mess we were in - to get the engine working again.

His persistence, courage and refusal to give up, demonstrated in this incident, existed all through his life. It’s a good lesson to all of us, particularly his grandchildren - never give up! Fight to the last! Have confidence in yourself and what you are doing!

I would just mention in closing, although it is not relevant to the story, that it was in his cottage that I wrote my first children’s story- “The Adventures of Prince Wai.”

The Legend of The Enmore Martyrs

(Taken from "Children's Stories of Guyana's Freedom Struggles" by Janet Jagan)

On the historical day, June 16, 1948, the men of Enmore began to picket the factory, calling for the estate bosses to listen to their demands for more pay. Then the police with guns came to the factory compound. The people of Enmore heard the shots being fired. When they ran to the factory compound, they saw their brothers and fathers on the ground bleeding Many had been shot. Four were dead and another was dying. All the workers came out to help care the victims of the horrible shooting. Many were taken to hospital, where one later died of the gunshot wound.

And every year since then, without exception, sugar workers have gone to their tombs with flowers, remembering the sacrifice they made for all working people.

Remember their names well - Rambarran, Surujballi, Harry Jug, Pooran and Lala Bagee. They are our heroes, who died to help others.

When Grandma Janet was a Little Girl

(Written for her grandaughter Vrinda’s on her 4th Birthday)

When I was a little girl growing up in Chicago, my greatest love was Chong, my chow dog. He was beautiful, with dark red, thick fur and a purple tongue. I loved to hug him and bury my face in his neck. He used to run away sometimes and stay away for days. Those were my unhappiest days. I used to cry for him. Once he was gone so long and I was so unhappy that my Dad put an ad in the newspaper and offered a reward. We were quite poor at the time, because the depression had hit us, like so many people, and my Dad was unemployed. However, he found the money to pay the reward, and I got back my lovely Chong.

In the winter, when it was snowing, he used to sit on the back steps and howl like a wolf. At those times he seemed strange to me and not so friendly. Someone told me it was the “call of the wild”. But in the summer, Chong and I used to play in the yard and I liked to tumble on the grass with him, he was so soft and furry. My mother used to bathe him in the laundry tub. He hated this and behaved bad until the bath was finished. Then he would shake himself furiously, and we all got wet, like being under a shower.

Nearing winter, my mother said she would buy me winter shoes, as my feet were growing so fast, I had no shoes to wear for cold weather. We went to Sears Robuch and as we passed thought the boy’s section, I saw what I wanted, what I was dying to have. It was a pair of boy’s high top boots, up to the knee and tied with laces all the way up. My mother tried to pull me away into the girl’s section, but I wouldn’t move. I finally persuaded her to buy me these boots. I convinced her that they would keep me warmer than wearing ankle shoes and heavy stockings to walk to school in the winter months.

How proud I was of those high top boots as they were called. I was the only girl wearing them, but I noticed later, others followed suit. It was much warmer than just stockings, because in those days girls did not wear long pants, and the winter coat came down only to the knee.
Oh, yes. Chicago could be very cold and the wind from Lake Michigan was often furious. Sometimes I carried a lunch box with a little thermos bottle, because walking home for lunch in the very cold weather was too hard for a little girl.

Some glorious times, my mother (your great grandmother Kate) used to give me ten cents for lunch and then I was happy. I would go to the drug store on the corner near Bryn Mawr School and order hot cocoa. The secret treasure of the hot cocoa was the marshmallow on top, which melted beautifully. I used to finish it off slowly so that the delicious taste would last as long as possible.

On my lucky days, when I had a few pennies, either from an uncle (uncles always used to slip my brother and I a nickel, or a dime or sometimes, even a quarter) or from my own earnings or savings, I would go to the candy store near the school and buy a liquorice whip – black or red. And when I had a few pennies jingling in my pocket, I would “take a chance”. That involved buying a chocolate covered candy for one penny, biting into it and seeing its colour. If it was white, you were a loser. If it was pink, you won a prize, usually a chocolate bar or five cents worth of candy.
Although we were poor for a fairly long time, I wasn’t exactly aware of it. I did not know that potato soup, which was hot and delicious in the cold weather, was used for economy. I don’t remember missing meat and chicken and more costly foods. My mother camouflaged the meals and we seemed to be eating OK. I can remember when poor people came to the door asking for help, my mother never turned them away. And in those depression days there were quite a few. She couldn’t give them money, but she always gave them something to eat.

My mother was a great seamstress and she used to earn money sewing at home. I remember her making kitchen aprons and hand stitching tiny leather coverings for camera parts and lenses. Also she made all my clothes, even a spring coat, I remember.

But there was always a dime for my brother and I to go to the Avalon picture show at 79th Street every, or almost every, Saturday. We had to go because they were showing serials, that is, a long, long movie seen in parts. Just as the movie reached the end of a part and stopped, the most exciting things were about to happen. Was the hero going to live through his fall crossing the rapids; would the heroine survive being pushed off a cliff and so on. So it was absolutely necessary to see the next instalment on the next Saturday morning. To miss it was torture and, if I remember correctly, the punishment for being very bad. That was the final and worst punishment that could be inflicted on a little girl.

The Avalon was like a fairy palace. There were fountains and luxurious furnishings. There were exquisite lady’s rooms and inside the cinema itself, the ceiling was made of stars and the walls on the side were like pictures in the fairy tales. It was a great experience going to the Avalon.

Another time, Vrinda, I will tell you of the holidays in Indiana and Wisconsin and swimming and being a Campfire Girl, and how I earned money. Maybe when you are big, you will tell your children and then – imagine! – your grandchildren of what you did when you were a little girl in Elizabeth, New Jersey.