All Guyanese know that the people commonly referred to as Indigenous Peoples, or Amerindians, were the first inhabitants of the land we now call Guyana. Less widely understood, however, are the methods employed by colonial powers to subjugate these First Peoples. A careful reading of history leads to two unsettling observations. First, the treatment of Guyana’s Indigenous Peoples became an early model for systems of domination later perfected through African enslavement. Second, there is growing concern that many of the same methods of control have simply evolved and continue to shape the relationship between the modern Guyanese political state and its Indigenous communities.
Among the most effective colonial instruments was social engineering. Indigenous identities were systematically eroded through the suppression of names, customs, traditions, and ways of life. Ironically, many of the practices once dismissed as primitive—particularly those relating to environmental stewardship and sustainable living—are today recognised by modern climate science as invaluable. Through the integration of their spiritual beliefs with an intimate understanding of the natural environment, Indigenous communities cultivated a culture of conservation that protected their lands and waterways for generations. Their legacy reminds us that all Guyanese owe a lasting debt to the First Peoples of this country.
It is against this historical backdrop that the treatment of Guyana’s Indigenous Peoples must continue to be examined, including by the present administration. The issues at stake extend far beyond politics; they speak to Indigenous rights, fundamental human rights, minority protections, and ultimately, our shared humanity.
The first example concerns the government’s response following the sinking of the MV Barima. At the National Toshaos’ Conference, held just two days after the tragedy while recovery efforts were still underway, Vice-President Bharrat Jagdeo announced a $5 million to $30 million allocation for Indigenous community projects and an increase in village procurement limits from $5 million to $30 million. Mr Jagdeo also announced that there will be a $3 billion dollar fund set aside for a housing programme for Indigenous communities. These announcements came less than forty-eight hours after Guyana’s worst maritime disaster, one that overwhelmingly affected Indigenous communities in Region One. The question is not whether these initiatives were beneficial, but whether their timing reflected genuine compassion or a political calculation aimed at securing compliance at a moment of profound grief.
History offers a revealing parallel. Missionary Fr. William Brett chronicled his efforts to convert Indigenous Peoples to Christianity, but his own writings also exposed the racial attitudes that underpinned the colonial project. He described Indigenous Peoples as “savages,” “animals,” and “non-humans,” warning that those who refused conversion would face eternal damnation. When these messages were translated by Indigenous converts, many communities embraced Christianity not out of conviction but out of fear. Yet conversion was never solely about religion. It facilitated the seizure of valuable lands, the relocation of Indigenous communities, the erosion of traditional food systems, the dismantling of cultural practices, and the removal of Indigenous stewardship over their ancestral territories. Religion became a powerful instrument through which colonial authority secured obedience.
Fr. Brett’s writings reveal another disturbing dimension of colonialism. He argued that Indigenous Peoples could only cease being regarded as “animals,” “savages,” and “non-humans” after passing through the baptismal font. Only then could they begin to embrace European culture: wear European clothing, speak the coloniser’s language, adopt European customs, and embrace an identity approved by the colonial order. Cultural transformation became the price of acceptance, while Indigenous identity itself was sacrificed and discarded.
It is here that the contemporary parallel becomes most striking. Cabinet outreaches and material incentives risk conveying the impression that the value of lives lost aboard the MV Barima can somehow be offset by allocations, procurement increases, or bags of cement. More troubling is the possibility that some Indigenous leaders and communities may feel compelled to accept these measures in place of insisting upon justice, accountability, and answers. If that occurs, the logic is not entirely different from Brett’s “baptismal font”: acceptance is conditioned upon compliance, while legitimate demands for accountability are quietly displaced by material concessions.
The tragedy of the MV Barima should not become another chapter in a long history in which Indigenous Peoples are expected to exchange justice for accommodation. Guyana’s colonial structures did not endure simply because of military or economic power; it endured because systems of control persuaded the Indigenous and subsequent ethnic groups to accept inequality as the cost of survival. If the People’s Progressive Party/Civic government is truly committed to reconciliation with its First Peoples, here and now, then respect cannot be measured by financial allocations or development projects alone. It must be demonstrated through accountability, transparency, and an unwavering commitment to the equal worth of Indigenous lives. Accountability must be pursued to where the buck stops and the MV Barima must be salvaged first because no value can or should be placed on human lives and for the evidence that must be deliberated upon by the Commission of Inquiry. Anything less risks reproducing, in a modern form, the very patterns of domination that history has already condemned.
Discussion