Two Funerals and A Debate

Day 1

At the funeral for his mother, a man stood at a lectern in a church in Cascade, his sister beside him, the stained glass framing the palm trees, the sunlit road outside. His mother had not known her children for five years. Still, he wept, gratitude a balm over grief. ‘In the end, my mother forgot our names but did not forget to say please, thank you and sorry. She had grace until the end.’ Grace wiped out the painful indifference of her disease.

Day 2

Six convicts from the Maximum Security Prison got up from their bunkers with a song in their hearts. Another six prisoners in the Port-of-Spain Prison rose, with the same feeling of hope. This was debate day.

For once they didn’t think of the messy toilets, their torn shoes, the toothpaste, soap and aftershave they always needed, their women struggling with their children, their sad mothers, their matters that hadn’t been settled for a decade, being locked up, four to a cell, day in day out, except for the one ‘airing’ hour and three meals. They didn’t have to think of pails in their toilet-less cells, stench or the sweat and fighting men.

They didn’t think of the indifference of their fathers, or teachers, or community leaders, which made them feel dead inside and could have made them kill. Their team had gotten into the finals of the prison debates started by Debbie Jacob, a journalist and teacher they called mother. They couldn’t tell you what brought life back to their eyes. It could be something that looked like the opposite of the indifference that had robbed them of their lives.

The opposite of indifference looked like Miss Jacob, drew the brightness from their minds, encouraged them to think for themselves, exposed them to the entire universe through books. Prisons killed the Internet and in a way that was a blessing. Because they were learning thousands of styles of expressing themselves by reading.

So here they were, our convicts, on November 13, 2018, in Woodford Square, Port-of-Spain, making history with words, skillfully debating issues, showing us how to be human. Under a gentle dove grey sky, the prison band played in the bandstand.

If the debating teams and supporting inmates closed their eyes, they could imagine Eric Williams rallying the nation towards independence from 1956-62, the 1970 throngs during the Black Power Movement.

Across the square, they could see their mothers, wives, girlfriends, children, grandmothers, friends, aunts—supporters. Even from here they could see the love in their faces.

They could see the chaplains of the prisons, and the prisons commissioner, and the minister of national security. They could see the judges. A set of media faces. All here for them.

They didn’t have this when they were growing up aimless and forgotten amidst eyes that thought them too insignificant to even look at. They hoped their children would be seen, loved, taught, saved like they hadn’t.

The Port-of-Spain Prison won the debate—to legalise marijuana. But so did the Maximum Security Prison for their slick way with words. They all won. They were out in the light. They were and are heard and seen.

Day 3

At the second funeral, a Christian parable describing the saved moved even the irreligious one like me. “For I was hungry, and you gave me food to eat. I was thirsty, and you gave me drink. I was a stranger, and you took me in. I was naked, and you clothed me. I was sick, and you visited me. I was in prison, and you came to me.”

It closed with the cautionary words that if we didn’t help the ‘least of these’ we debase ourselves. Crime has deadened us. Our history of enslavement, indentureship, and the postcolonial fight has made us proud and alert to subjugation.

Afraid of words like ‘please,’ ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry’ which confer grace and redemption and acknowledge one another’s fragility.

In the face of this uncertain brief life, we could think of quitting the safe deadness of indifference and the iron-clad fence of pride. By helping others to live, allow our flame to leap higher, come alive to ourselves. We each owe one another this.