The Senior Government Official Guyanese Women Dislike

1These days I don’t say a whole lot about politics in Guyana but that doesn’t mean that I have nothing to say. I’m just not ready to say it. I’m still here and I’m still engaging my country men and women and I’m still recording experiences and opinions. Since the Granger government swore in its ministers and appointed its senior officials there has been a lot of muttering – even from that half the population that is pro-Coalition government. A chunk of the mutterings has come from women who very passionately dislike a certain senior government official.

Last week – in a blatantly sexist  act – I got in the car of a female taxi driver. It was quite some distance to my destination and so we got to talking about her profession, why she chose it and whether she felt very secure doing it. We drove by a trench that was recently cleaned and she commented about how the new government really was making an effort. I told her I was fond of the new president’s image even if I didn’t like some of the policy edits and approaches. Her response?

“Yeah girl, I like we new president to but it got one one of them people he got around he that I really can’t tek.”

“Oh?” I waited for her to say more.

“I mean I don’t understand how some people and them dutty character get big government wuk.”

She began telling me a story of sexual harassment and even without her naming the individual I immediately knew about whom she was speaking. Long before this particular Government official rose to his current position he has been infamous for his attitude to women – particularly younger women.

“I went to him expecting some professionalism, you know, and all I get was him trying to bus’ a hustle in me. Telling me about how he could do things to my body and how he want fuck me. I mean what shit is that? Can you imagine how I felt? How was I suppose to receive a service from a man like duh eh? And imagine this nonsense now, he get big government wuk.”

I related my own encounter with the same gentleman to her. It had happened more than 7 years ago at the Georgetown Magistrates’ Court. Since then, I’ve heard many similar stories from women about him. The standard response to this particular official is “O, he? Everybody know how he stay”.

Such sordid behaviour from our politicians is nothing new. However, it certainly isn’t normal behaviour and it shouldn’t be accepted behaviour. A prerequisite of holding political office should be impeccable moral character and it is something we should begin demanding. The future of Guyana lies not in party politics but in the ability of a nation to recognise what it deserves and to demand those things.

To AG Anil Nandlall – On the “Chatri Coolie”

Dear AG Anil Nandlall,

Since President Donald Ramotar prorogued Parliament, I have not heard much about your Chatri-Coolie-Corruption tape. The proroguing seems to have worked out for you in more ways than one. Also, pardon me if I don’t use the word “alleged” anywhere in our correspondence because the president declared to the nation that the tape was not doctored but that your words were taken out of context. It seems that you now and forever more will be tied to those utterances.

I am not here to take sides or to defend any individual or group of individuals. I have learnt that people, no matter how righteous their actions may appear, all have some deep-rooted aim which motivates them. Instead, I defend near dead things like honour, honesty, justice, democracy and freedom of press and of expression.

I have only just listened to your tape, sir, and I like that you use our Creole language; that you embrace your identity. I heard you ask Leonard if he knew the meaning of “Chatri Coolie”. “I am a Chatri Coolie,” you declared to him. Well sir, I do believe that had you been aware of the true meaning of the term then you would not so freely use it to describe yourself.

You see, Anil, my Nani – who still swears that it could not have been you uttering those words on that recording because she cannot believe that a good and nice boy like you would do such a dishonor to his country and his people – has told me all sorts of stories about mystical India and the culture we have inherited from our forefathers. A Chatri Coolie, as Nani has explained it, is an Indian man (or woman) – or in our case a descendant of such a man or woman – who is not powerful because he revels in power but because he is a defender of those who do not sit in the place of power and because he truly understands the responsibility that comes with power.

How many people do you think have Googled Chatri Coolie over the last month Anil? How many do you think now associate the term with dishonor and corruption and a power-hungry fool? Just think Anil, this is the association that goes with the term in our little world and you, having branded yourself a Chatri Coolie, are irrevocably married to these connotations. You are the first of this new type of Chatri. Just think Anil! This is how you have been frozen in history, this is how you will be remembered, and this is now your legacy.

Chatri, dear Anil, is the mother caste of the Rajputs (even Wikipedia agrees). When we think Rajputs, we immediately think of honor and pride. A Rajput’s honor means more to him (or her) than life. In the ancient social system mapped by the Vedas, the Chatris are the sacred warriors who save the people from wounds by sustaining wounds themselves.

But you Anil, what wounds have you sustained for your people? What have you done for all of us? Have you stood apart from and fought against a system of evil that plagues us? Have you fought for every coolie man and woman, every black man and woman, every Amerindian man and woman, every Chinese man and woman, every white man and woman, every hybrid man and woman in this country? What have you done that is deserving of honor, sir? What is it, beyond riches and power, that makes you Chatri?

And you know what else Anil? The utterance which convinced me the most that you are lost – was not the scandalous things you said about your uncle wanting to fuck a young reporter or about the “borrowing” of state funds or even about attacking the Kaieteur News – it was when you expressed your concern for your wife and stated that in all of this she is innocent and knows nothing about it.

It was the only time I heard something genuine in your voice Anil. I could hear your love for that woman and your fear for her leak into your words and I listened with a heavy heart. I kept thinking, Anil, that had you really loved that woman in the way that I am sure she deserves to be loved then you would not have acted in any way that would have put her at risk. You would have guarded your honor closely, Anil, because as you well know in our culture and most others a husband’s honor is the same as his wife’s. Why would you do such things to her and your children and your mother and father and all those whose honor is somehow connected to yours? Even me, and all of those like me, young, promising souls struggling to birth Guyanese, why would you do this to us?

But more than all of this Anil, what I really want to tell you is this: you see how you love and fear for your wife? I understand that well. But the love I feel for the people close to me, can in no way eclipse the love I have for my country and all those who call it home. I believe that had you loved our country like this, had any of you loved Guyana in such a way, such dark days would never have dawned upon us. These things Anil make me fear for our country and its people, even you.

Without Wax,

Bharrat.

On the Twelfth Day

By S. Bharrat

 

I dreamt that the day of revolution would come;

that thousands would storm the city streets

screaming for justice. – Mahadai Dass

 

The day for revolution has come and gone

and I hear your cry echo the wind

that carries nothing but my brother’s silence:

mouth sealed shut by his own mud and water.

One counterfeit general – his wings beating strong;

his brooches of vanity shining

in God’s eye still – is replaced by a puppet

whose strings are imagined

to save us from our worst fear.

And it is the stringless puppet

who holds back the climbing sun in the sky;

who cements our lips with river mud,

lovingly applying the paste with his rakshas self.

His muddy hand touches our eyes; our hearts, our souls

so that he can be savior; the sacrificial lamb

avoiding an atmosphere of confrontation.

It has been twelve days since he saved us

And only another pen’s ink on the

tenth day softened the mud on my lips.

But our words bring no irrevocable flood.

Instead, waters storm the city streets

raising dirt and filth and waste

that will be shoved down our throats;

drowning a lonely call for justice.

And in all of this, I think of you

and your dead dream and I wonder

if maybe, I swallowed some of the river mud

covering my heart and hardening it.

Or is it that his hand reached into my chest

grabbing it, choking it, smearing it with mud

so that god’s eye would linger on it – drying the water from it

like the puppet sucks the life from them –  until it is a rock in my chest?

Until it pulls heavily on the rotten yarn of my life?

Until, like your dream, I am dead?

(November 22, 2014)

An Independence Conversation with Nani

Earlier, the sky was a clear kind of blue that floods the soul with happy, happy feelings. Now, the rain clouds have descended upon Craig Old Road. It isn’t a storm but it isn’t quite the sort of early evening calm that usually greets us at this time of day. Nani sits in her usual spot on the couch, the neighbours are quarreling about the stray cats and some BBC reporter is walking confidently among Thai protesters on the television screen. Life isn’t like it used to be, Nani says. She was born in 1939 and has seen many blue skies and many little showers of rain. She has lived through storms. I ask if she would answer some questions. She smiles and nods. I believe the state of our people’s minds is the true reflection of what we have achieved since May 26, 1966.

Do you remember when Guyana gained Independence? How old were you?

In 1950…no wait Rohan bin born, he was a couple month old baby. So we gained Independence in 1966.

Who was the leader at the time?

 I think Jagan.

 

How did you feel when Guyana became Independent?

 Me di feel okay…but after that he [Jagan] and Burnham split.

Why did they split?

They split because when they went to India and come back they were at loggerheads.

Why were they at loggerheads?

Jagan kept certain meetings and he used a certain term. That would have no doubt upset Burnham.

What term did he use?

Well it was one term. Aapanjaht. It means nation for nation.

Why do you think he used that term?

I guess according to what was going on he felt the need to do something like that. Advantage was being taken on Indians.

Did Burnham ever say anything like that?

He na use it in a language like Jagan but he spoke about it in sentences and people understood what he was saying. At Bourda Green Burnham spook about the goal mines. He said to look at who was mining the gold and who was wearing the gold. He said that the gold must be taken back.

What were things like before Independence?

Under the white people, that was the British, well to me the wages were small and so but you used to get everything. There was no kick down door. Robbery and murder was not rampant. And even though groups of blacks were in the kick down door campaigns there were one one Indians among them. The Indian presence in those things was not as prevalent as it is today. You could walk the streets in the British time. You could buy one big basket goods and still have lef’ back after the month was done.

And what happened after Independence?

We suffered a lot to get things because they kept saying that Jagan was a communist.

Did things change when Burnham took office?

For his first term or so we had access to things but then he banned the imports like flour and said that we must use local. Wasn’t a bad thing but we na had other things. We couldn’t produce our own. The decision was too rash. Maybe if it was done gradually it would have been more successful.

Where was Jagan during this time?

I remember sometime in the 60s Jagan called for all farmers to stay away from the market for a week. If Burnham was going to punish us by banning flour then we should punish him by not taking provisions to the market. But we still went to the market. We couldn’t stay home. We needed sales, we needed money, we had to survive.

And then Hoyte took up office?

Yes. Hoyte did a lot of good but the price and so were high. When he came in there wasn’t much crime because he passed a law for hanging. Is da wa bring hatred between us so much.

What brought the hatred?

The disturbances of the 60s. Me can remember a time when Black people and Indian people used to live as one family. Now even though we still live good we don’t really trust each other you know.

Do you think Jagan and Burnham could have avoided this?

If they had preached the right things on their platforms then we wouldn’t be here. Where was the need to further split us because of politics? I can remember in 1964 when the Black were burning down Georgetown. Is Black people house we used to go and hide.

Which Black people were burning down Georgetown?

They used to say Burnham had he thugs. But is not the Black people who were our neighbours and friends. No, not them at all.

And what about Rodney?

I never met Walter Rodey but I remember that Rupert Roopnaraine came to our village once and he wanted to hold a meeting in front the shop so he could get light. But we didn’t give them light because we were afraid that people would pelt our house and attack us.

Do you regret not giving them light?

Yes. I sorry in one way but you try to protect yourself and your family. In these fights you always have to choose between the good they promise and yourself and your family.

How do you feel about Guyana now after almost 5 decades of Independence?

Everybody want fast life.

Everybody?

The new politicians and the old ones that still around. They just won’t sit and get things done. Look at parliament. They row whole day. They won’t learn to sit and agree so that the country can go forward. Their attitudes na good at all.

Who do you vote for?

Me does always vote for the PPP.

Why do you vote for them?

Because I seh more seat they get they would have more power to look after the people.

Do you feel that they are looking after the people?

I really can’t say with what going on. They got too much going on. You can’t deh in parliament whole day forming law and brukin law and not coming out to see what is happening to the people. Where is the money? Imagine, dead man getting pay in office.

Is this PPP the same PPP you voted for when Jagan was alive?

No they aren’t the same. They aren’t the same at all. They are vastly different. Everybody wants a fast life. Everybody wants to full their pockets.

What about APNU? Do you think they would do better?

APNU? But APNU was in it too. Granger and Greenidge were in it back in the PNC days.

Do you think it’s fair to blame young people like James Bond for what happened back then?

No that is not fair at all. And that is the problem. The old people need to learn that their experience is good for guidance. They need to step back and let young people take up their rightful places. When the old continue to make a mess of things is the young people will have to clean it up.

If all of those men and women in parliament were your children would you be proud of them?

No. I would be very upset with them. All of them, not just any one side.

What would you tell them?

I tell you like it is. I would tell them ‘You are not doing the right thing’.

 

For Tribe or Country

“My name is… Bharrat. I am an East Indian Guyanese…” (The beginning of a Primary School composition in the early 90s).

The relative of a high ranking public official engaged me in conversation on January 15, 2014. We spoke briefly about the connotations of a certain word. They believe the word is an insult to Guyana and Indians. “…the beloved country you are fighting for is being insulted by it [the word] including yourself, whom I suspect has some trace of Indian heritage,” they said.

This was not my first experience of being othered. Sadly, many have decided that I simply cannot be only of Indian heritage because the views I have expressed in earlier articles seem to be anti-Indian. Some more creative minds have dubbed me “the anti-coolie coolie woman”. I can explain this reaction in one word: tribalism.

“I am a descendant of Indians. I come from a traditional Hindu, Indian, PPP [People’s Progressive Party] family,” I explained. They said nothing.

On December 19, 1950 the Waddington Commission reported:

“Race is a patent difference and is a powerful slogan ready to the hand of unscrupulous men who can use it as a stepping stone to political power. Race too, is easily identifiable with nationalism which in recent years has been emergent among all colonial peoples…. The Indians, too, derive from an ancient culture of their own, and some among them may be inclined to pay homage to their heritage merely as a cover under which to condone racial attitudes.” (quoted in History of the People’s National Congress, p. 6)

Even a brief examination of Guyana’s political history will reveal that racism has been used to engulf our nation in flames that burn to this very day. In The Ashes of Cheddi and Burnham, I note that these two leaders have become respective icons for Guyanese of Indian and African heritage. As a result, the PPP and the People’s National Congress (PNC) are associated with Indian and African power, respectively. Our political machinery has effectively divided us. We are tribes, armed with the vote, in a power struggle.

Being of Indian heritage and having lived the Indian experience, I can only speak of my own encounters with tribalism. I am not anti-Indian. I am anti-tribalism. I value my heritage. I recognize that it is part of the whole that is Bharrat. But I also know that it does not define me. My ethnicity is not my identity. I am not Indian. I am Guyanese.

The PPP and PNC cannot be blamed for the genesis of this tribal based political system. However, each (whether consciously or unconsciously) has surely played its part in maintaining the tribal mentality. The continued survival of tribal mentality means political power for a selected few. It means that we (the people) do not realize our own power. It means that we give our votes too cheaply.

Language is the most powerful weapon which the politician wields. With language, the politician manipulates our rational and emotional spheres. With language, he plants fear in our minds. He uses fear to maintain the tribal mentality, the tribal system. He teaches us to fear anything that is not of the tribe. He teaches us that he is necessary for the tribe’s survival.

In a recent study (The Undercurrents of Guyanese Political Rhetoric: Linguistic Manipulation and Power), I examined two speeches (one by former president Bharrat Jagdeo and the other by current Speaker of the National Assembly Raphael Trotman) from the 2011 General Elections rallies held at Albion, Berbice. The primary aim was to determine if and how the speakers used language to manipulate listeners in order to gain or maintain political power. Here is an excerpt of the analysis:

“Allusion

I know that many of you are just discovering how wonderful this country is and particularly those who left Guyana when times were hard, they come back and it’s a rediscovery process. (NCNNewsGuyana, “PPPC Rally – Albion”)

Allusion serves as a powerful tool in Jagdeo’s speech to transmit and reinforce political ideology by creating fear of past conditions. This ideology or perceived truth which is accepted as common sense knowledge “legitimize(s) the existing power relation” (Fairclough 1989, 33) between the party and the audience (a section of the electorate).

By alluding to “when times were hard”, Jagdeo is referring to the era under PNC rule when many Guyanese migrated. Further, the fact that he is East Indian and was alive during these “hard times” gives him more authority as a speaker and as a result the listener, whether or not they experienced the “hard times” that is being alluded to, is inclined to accept Jagdeo’s statement as true.

The utterance functions in two ways. First, it appeals to the listener’s logic and sense of reason. It is reasonable to contend that people are only now discovering how wonderful Guyana is because before now times were hard. This sort of linguistic strategy is rational manipulation and seeks to influence the listener’s behaviour (in this case cause them to vote PPP) by affecting the rational sphere. (Asya n.pag.)

Second, the manipulation also takes an emotional form. Guyanese, particularly those of East Indian descent, are fearful of the era to which Jagdeo alludes. The fear stems either from their own experiences during the Burnham period or ideas of these events that would have been transmitted to them by parents or grandparents. As a result, the allusion to the era plays upon this existing fear and creates fear of its repetition.

Hence, by using his ethnicity and experience as points of power, Jagdeo is able transmit his party’s ideology of the Burnham era to the audience. The transmission of this ideology is capable of influencing the listener both rationally and emotionally. If the manipulation is realized then the listener accepts the ideology as truth and concedes their vote.” (Bharrat 2014)

It is sad that the politician so successfully makes a case of our dependence upon him when the opposite is true. The politician is dependent upon us for power. It is time we realized this, time we recognized the power of a single vote. It is because the politician understands the people’s power that he works so hard to manipulate our beliefs, our thinking.

By allowing ourselves to be so manipulated we live in fear and we allow our actions to be controlled. We allow our vote to be talked out of us without ever truly thinking critically and independently for ourselves. We give our power to the politician too cheaply, too easily. This is how we have been handicapped. We have allowed them to convince us that we have chosen them when in truth our right to choose has been deviously taken from us.

The truth is that the politician lives in fear. He lives in fear of the day we learn to think and to separate ourselves from the tribe. He lives in fear of the day we fight for country and not for tribe. He lives in fear of the day we begin to freely choose again and in so doing force him to earn our votes by performing in our best interests. He lives in fear of the day our children will write:

“My name is Bharrat. I am a Guyanese.”
© Sara Bharrat 2014

The Economics of Activism and the Writer

“…when a monster grows, it grows out of control. It eats up even those who created the monster. And it’s time that our people understood this.” Walter Rodney, 1977, Georgetown.

In January, a woman suggested that I put down my pen – because it was useless – and that I march in the streets of Georgetown. I was taken aback. Did she really believe that tramping aimlessly in the sun was superior to writing? And if so, did she believe it while being aware of the cost attached to silencing only one pen in Guyana?

Her view of writing did not surprise me. She is only a product of her society and its culture. She has been conditioned to see her world as a place where the writer is meant for spinning El Dorado fantasies and where writing is not truth but merely the silly imaginings of a fool. How many more Guyanese share her view? Even one more is too many.

I believe now, more than at any other time in the history of our nation, the writer – the man or woman whose pen deals in the currency of truth – has become chief activist. Writing is a powerful and dangerous form of activism. Words are not merely read or heard, they are felt, absorbed, embedded in the memory and they shape the way we see, think, act.

For weeks I have written about the fear and silence which imprison our people. The Guyanese writer, the Guyanese artist, is the voice of the silent, of the silenced. They carry the true spirit of the fight against oppression. They create hope for and belief in change. They awaken and give strength. Without them, there is no hope for freedom from oppression, no hope of stopping the monsters that have grown out of control, no hope of having hope.

Like any form of activism, like anything else in the world for that matter, writing comes with a price. For many weeks I have not written. I do not consider them weeks of silence. They have merely been weeks of observation, of learning. I have been watching and listening, absorbing.

I have also been working out the economics of activism, the economics of writing. Am I willing to pay what it costs to write? Do I believe that the possible results will be worth the price I pay? Yes, of course, I am willing to pay what it costs to write because writing is necessary for my survival, for me to be who I am.

I also believe that any price I pay to shift the culture of fear and silence, to awaken more people, to give my peers voices, will be worth it. I believe that our people and country are worth all my correspondence ending up at the Central Intelligence Unit eventually, my phone being tapped, my privacy utterly and completely invaded. I believe that it is well worth the anger, the depression, the heartbreak, the broken friendships, the lost relationships, the aloneness, the labels of anti-coolie coolie woman and racist.

So what is the problem? The problem is this: I am not the only one who shoulders the cost. I overlooked the fact that other people would have to pay a greater price for my writing. I did not consider the price that would be paid by the man I love or by my mother, my brothers, my nani, my friends. What right do I have to condemn these people to live in fear for me? Worse yet, what right do I have to put them at risk?

Would it be easier for all of us if I sat in my house and lived my life in silence? The fact is that not writing would cost every one of us far more than writing. If I did not write then I would abandon my basic responsibilities as a human being and eventually become but a shadow of a woman. If I did not write then I would rob our people of their chance of having one more voice, of change, of hope, of the promise of a better Guyana.

If I did not write then there would be one less to fight the monsters among us. If I did not write then the cost would be extended to not just family and friends but to an entire nation. Writing is clearly the more economical choice.

During my weeks of observation, many people asked me whether I had been threatened, if I had given up, if I had bowed to the monster. Who will threaten me? And where is the need to threaten me? The most dangerous thing I face is not threats from the oppressor or even my own fear; it is the fears of the people I love and my need to sooth them, keep them safe.

In the end, the writer, the artist, the activist must choose between love for a few and love for many. The writer must choose between self and others. The writer must be prepared to walk alone while using words to fill voids and unite people. The writer must be forever conscious of the cost attached to every word and pay the price for writing, for stopping the monster, for teaching the nation that we all face the same enemy.

Beneath the Colwyn Harding tragedy

There will always be moments in our history when silence will say more about us than any tongue or pen. For those who have remained silent on the reported baton rape of 23-year-old Colwyn Anthony Harding, history will preserve you as that side which either lacked humanity, was too stifled by fear or simply as not having enough courage to stand and demand that the system produces what it should for every man, woman and child in our country.

Many pens and tongues have condemned the alleged torture of Harding by the Guyana Police Force (GPF) rank. But still this many has not been nearly enough. I have long added my voice to these and now my pen will address those things which have been leaping to life beneath the surface of the Harding tragedy.

There have been those among you who have come to me in outrage. But your outrage has not been because of your young brother’s suffering. It has been a product of what I can only imagine is your blindness; your inability to see how you have allowed a political system to rob you of humanity and enslave you.

Where is the need to create so much trouble over this? This is what you have asked me. If I did not answer you then, it is because I did not trust myself to deal with you gently. But here is my answer now: when we fight our fear, when we break the silence, when we speak for Colwyn Harding, when we demand that the Ministry of Home Affairs and the GPF act efficiently, when we note the lack of and demand proper health care, we do not only speak for one man. We speak for our children, our people, and our country. In speaking for Harding, we speak less for him and more for ourselves.

When allegations that Harding had been attacked in his bed at the Georgetown Public Hospital Corporation (GPHC) began circulating, some of you came to me in disbelief. There is no way that such a thing could have happened, you said. Some of you even suggested that Dr. Melissa Ifill and others who have been working tirelessly to help Harding and his mother had “made it up”.

Why would you believe such a thing? Perhaps, it is because you have not seen the things in our country that some of us have seen, have lived, and have wished we did not ever see or experience. When I began my career in journalism at 18, I became intimately acquainted with the GPHC. Although the place has had a face lift since then it will forever remain in my memory as a prime example of the human’s disregard for his fellow being.

If in your mind you think the GPHC is a well secured institution then I advise you to rid yourself of that notion. From my own experience, I can tell you that it is one of the easiest places to walk in and out of at will. So when Dr. Ifill and others make these reports they know what they are saying. It is impossible to make up such atrocities.

Besides, I am well acquainted with Dr. Ifill as a lecturer at the University of Guyana. I salute women like her, women like Sharon Harding, who have stood against the silence. These are women once you have looked into their eyes you see the burning passion for truth and people and country. It is a rare thing to find courage in a man or woman among us.

And finally, there have been questions about whether the GPF rank who reportedly abused Harding may have been moved to do so by racist sentiment. Even now, I cannot begin to comprehend what moves a man to do such a vile thing to another being like himself. If racism makes up the sum of why Harding became a victim then I can only hope that our people can rise from this abyss.

Our history is a long and bitter one full of racial tension. It is easy for us to begin to hate each other. Sometimes it is hard to remember that one man’s actions is not a reflection of what lies in the hearts of those who look like him. I have felt for Colwyn Anthony Harding, there are many like me who feel for him. There are many of us who look at him and see a son, a brother, a friend. I am certain that despite the face of her son’s tormentor, Sharon Harding will still look at me and see a daughter of her country, nothing less. These things give me hope.

Last Friday I was late for the peaceful picket which took place outside the Commissioner’s office at Police Headquarters, Eve Leary. Only a handful of Guyanese were there huddled under umbrellas but still my heart felt hope. About one third of those present looked like me and because of that too my heart felt hope. But my heart faltered for a second because I did not see anyone else close to my age but then I remembered those beautiful young women who picketed near parliament a few days ago and I felt hope.

At least there are some who history will remember as having had courage, as conquering fear, as souls who stood for what was right. And this is what it means to stand for Colwyn Anthony Harding. It means doing what is right. Some of us have understood this. Still, we are not nearly enough but at least there is hope.