The Day The Village Died

By Mohamed Irfaan Ali

After more than two decades, the memory of the harsh wound inflicted on the people of my village seems so fresh as if it was only yesterday.  The pain, agony and hardship it brought upon the people still remain strikingly fresh, too deep to heal and painful to forget. The common village alarm of the faithful morning whistle, the sweet aroma of the ripened burnt canes and the bustling of each household before sunrise made it a village so full of life all of which was embodied in the sugar plantation and her factory.
It was not just sugarcane, steel and mortar that formed the factory. It was a reflection of the tireless sacrifice of our ancestors, it was a symbol of their blood and sweat and a symbolic representation of this victory. It was the prize and pride of their independence, a motivation for their cause. It was what brought bread to their families, educated their children, fed the entire village and provided their every necessity. Their life, hope, dreams and aspirations surrounded it all. They toiled to make it successful, persevered to improve it and lay their bodies in defence of it and the freedom it once brought. Yes, the same freedom that brought the entire country independence.
Never did they imagine this symbol that embodied their entire being, their history, tradition and livelihood would be used as a tool to beat them into oppression, inflict painful blows upon them and take everything away just to reduce them to nothing. Yes, it was in the same vain that the forefathers and ancestors fought for freedom from colonial rule, on the very ground that won that victory where still the blood stained grass from those who were beaten and murdered continued to grow. It was in these very fields that again freedom had to be fought for, with the same fervour of those before they fought. Only this time it was fought against a dictatorship led by a man blinded by his shameless desire for power, who trampled upon freedom and ruled under the ugly coat of rigged elections, injustice and arrogance. It was on these very grounds that again history would be written.
As the villagers in a peaceful manner protested the violation of their rights and freedom, the neglect of their village and blockade against their development, the dictator masquerading as President announced that he would trample upon the village. He would stand in the sacred areas where our fore parents eked out a living in mud baked logies. There on these sacred grounds he wanted to land his feet like a tyrant. It was there that his men came in and set a platform from which height he would seek to inflict his message of pain, misery and hopelessness. It was in the midst of the struggle for free and fair elections but nothing could have prepared the villagers for the hands of the dictator.
As he arrived, the resistance was high and as any dictator he wanted to see the presence of his subjects before his eyes but instead he was greeted with a few horses and cows tied along the road way all carrying garlands made out of flowers. Seeing this, the dictator became outraged and proceeded to the microphone where announced, “If only animals live in this village there is no need for a sugar factory, no need for the cane cultivation and as such it shall be closed.“
It was not long after that, the closure of the Leonora Estate was announced and an entire village bled with tears. The once bustling village became a zombie, but the villagers continued their struggles which eventually won them their democracy. At the end of his  story of history, Uncle Taylor, an elder in the village wiped the tears from his eyes, rested his hands on my shoulder and said “My boy never again must we lose this freedom, it is too costly”.