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By NICOLETTE BETHEL:

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WITH elections three weeks away and three political parties that apparently have yet to formulate, much less articulate, any new or credible plan for Bahamian development or growth in 21st century (and no, planning to beg more rich people for more money to buy up more of our precious archipelago does not count), I think it#39;s time for the average Bahamian, the voter, to exercise her democratic right and put down in print what will or will not get her vote.

I am a Bahamian who has never really been represented by any party that has held power in The Bahamas to date. I am a woman, middle class, neither black nor white, a cultural worker and intellectual, a citizen and a voter, an ordinary Bahamian who does not campaign, carry a voter#39;s card, attend rallies, or otherwise show her face during the silly season that surrounds politics.

I pay my taxes in every way they are presented to me. I have never sat in a politician#39;s office to beg for anything when doing so was not part of my job as a civil servant. I have been eligible to vote in the past six general elections but in that time I have only once been visited by a prospective MP, who believed that he was making a social call on old friends, my parents. I have never, in my civilian position, called any sitting politician for a job, for a handout, for a favour, for any sort of help. I do not work in the tourism industry, real estate, the construction industry, or any other area that figures in political discussions of quot;jobsquot; and quot;economicsquot; or anything else.

I am one of thousands of productive, independent, patriotic Bahamians who make this country run on a daily basis. I took the opportunities offered to me by the first independent government of The Bahamas and went off and earned a college degree. I came home because I wanted to serve and build my country. To date, my country has not put in place anything to serve and build me; to every politician who has served in parliament in the time I have been voting, people like me have been invisible. In our democracy, we do not count.

And so: a voter#39;s manifesto.

I believe:

• 
  that Bahamians are as intelligent, as resourceful, as industrious, as talented and as deserving as any other group of people on the planet

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[Read on Here]

Has prostate cancer become a silent epidemic to the island man?

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By Julie Charles:

It was Saturday morning and visiting hours at the hospital were about to begin. I called out to my mom and told her that we had to hurry up because we needed to go and check on my uncle as soon as possible. To this day, I never understood the urgency in my spirit but I knew we had to leave shortly. For some reason or the other we could not get out the house fast enough but, when we finally did, I drove as fast as I could to get there. I got out of the car and began to hasten my steps. As I reached the corridor, I heard a scream and then saw my cousin on the ground.

My mind did not register that the scream came from her so I continued my journey quickly to my unclersquo;s room. As I walked in, I saw him lying peacefully on the hospital bed and again my mind could not comprehend that he was gone. I sat on the chair next to him and just stared. I felt my motherrsquo;s hands on my shoulder and heard her say, child he is in a better place now and he is in no more pain. What did she mean a better place? Is she really saying that he is dead? Canrsquo;t she see that is he is only resting?nbsp;

Shortly after, a nurse came into the room and begun to wrap him up in white linen. I asked what is she doing to my uncle and I was told that she was preparing him for the hearse to come for his body. I could not understand what they were saying, because to me, my uncle was just sleeping. Preparing him for the hearse, has everyone gone mad? I sat and watched as the nurse continued to wrap him up and then it became evident to me that he was gone.nbsp;



I then got up and walked out of the room and continued walking until I reached the furthest point of the hospital and sat and began to cry. Then, I felt a hug and looked up and saw my adopted fatherrsquo;s smile. He said, my darling child I know you are hurting but only time can heal. He then began his usual way of making me laugh. As I tried to cheer myself up, I realised that they were taking my uncle out in a body bag and I took off running. Where are they taking him? My mother held me and said, ldquo;Let him go.rdquo;nbsp;



I donrsquo;t understand, it was just a couple days ago I lay on his bed chatting up a storm with him. We talked about Carnival and how he enjoyed watching me play mas. We talked about how hard he had worked for his family. We talked about the basketball team, the Chicago Bulls, who would not stop losing their games. Now, I am being asked to accept that he was gone. My head started hurting real bad and it felt like a forty piece orchestra was having a recital in my head. I needed to go home and fast. I looked around and saw my mother who is always serene and calm, especially during difficult times. I then asked her if she was okay, knowing that she had just lost her brother. She said, I am fine and God knows best.



We got home and I took to my bed. I wish I could just take off my head and rest it on the dressing table. I started thinking about the first time my uncle called me with a quiver in his voice. I was shocked as I have always heard his voice firm and strong. He said, my niece, I have prostate cancer. I was shaken but I quickly recovered and asked him what the doctor had said and he started to repeat. As usual my spirit said of course we will fight this disease. That is what this family does, we fight and we donrsquo;t give up. So I put on my mental armour and I told him not to worry we will fight.nbsp;



I started to research and ask as much questions as I could about the disease. I needed to arm myself with information so I know what to ask the doctors. For three years, he held on and at one point we really thought we had this disease beaten. He was strong again, he was working, and enjoying life but then it came back in full force and no amount of medication could stop its progress. Watching my uncle roll around in utter pain while tears came out his eyes will always remain branded in my mind. I will never forget him telling me he loved me and that he was proud of me days before he died. It was as if he knew he was leaving and he wanted me to know how he felt.nbsp;



Even then I could not grasp that he was leaving. I kept hope alive in my mind because I could not fathom my world without my uncle in it. He was my father figure since a child; he was my financier for college; he was my cheerleader when I wanted to try something new, and he was my counsellor who was never afraid to speak his mind.nbsp;



The day of his funeral was one of the most painful moments of my life. I prayed all morning that Father would give me the courage to make my tribute to him. As I walked in and viewed him, my heart eased a little because he looked so peaceful. When the time came to give my tribute, I walked past his coffin knowing that there lay my uncle and I would never have the blessing of his counsel again. I delivered my tribute but ended up a tearful, snotty mess.nbsp;



At the graveside, I could not watch them put him in the ground so I stood off while a friend comforted me. I could not say goodbye to him as I could not understand why he was gone. To this day he is always with me in my memories but I will never forget the disease that took him so early in his life.



Therefore, I urge every man over the age of forty to get their prostate checked on an annual basis. What happens in the doctorrsquo;s office is between you and your doctor. The macho and bravado means nothing if you have this disease. It is a disease that if caught early can be treated and you may have prolonged life. However, if not it is a painful and expensive journey that both you and your family can avoid through a yearly check-up. I appeal to the women to urge your men to get their annual check-ups.nbsp;



Too many island men are now becoming afflicted by this disease, and it is a preventable and treatable disease. We need to understand that we are responsible for the health of our loved ones and ourselves. As the old saying goes ldquo;an ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure.rdquo;

March 10, 2012

caribbeannewsnow

Caribbean Blog International

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By Keith Noel:

MY FATHER-IN-LAW rarely uttered the word #39;Rasta#39; without prefacing it with the word #39;dutty#39;. He loved my younger daughter dearly and as far as he was concerned, she was the perfect child. He must be revolving in his grave now to see her with locks flowing down her back.

This to me images the marked difference in the perception of Rastafari over the past 30 years. I remember in the 1960s the fear with which people spoke of these cultists. They were sometimes described as #39;blackheart#39; men and spoken of as if they were the spawn of the devil. They were berated and scorned from many a pulpit and many parents suffered paroxysms when their children showed even a mild interest in the movement.

From the very outset, Rastafari had a firm commitment to the struggle for black dignity. What particularly fascinated me was their absolute rejection of the idea of white superiority and even their rejection of any values they considered white. They gave the generation of the #39;70s the base on which to build a world view that was not a mirror of that of the metropolis.

Brutalise them

Society saw the threat of the Rasta to the status quo and gave licence to their agents in the police force, the teaching profession, and the civil service to brutalise them physically or psychologically. And the rest of #39;decent#39; society stood by in tacit acceptance of this abuse. I remember one day at a football match in the stadium, seeing a policeman search a Rasta for ganja, forcing him to kneel and cutting a couple of his locks in the process. There was no outrage. In fact, at the time, local pop songs had jokes about policemen beating Rastas for speaking their particular dialect!

Then there was the chilling story of Peter Tosh stepping out into the yard of the studio in Half-Way Tree where he was recording what was to be a classic LP. He was smoking a spliff and a policeman saw him and, although he had flicked the spliff away, began to beat him, and as Tosh said quot;when him lif up de batten to deliver the fatal blowquot; to his head, he parried it with his forearm, which was badly broken. There was no real outcry and, as far as I know, the policeman did not lose his job.

The aggression was psychological as well. Under the guise of #39;proper grooming#39; any efforts by teenage blacks to adopt hairstyles that shouted their blackness to the world were outlawed in schools. There was tremendous opposition to the #39;afro#39;. A young friend of mine was prevented from going to her exams at Immaculate High unless she agreed to forego her afro. A namesake of mine lost his job at Knox College for being too afrocentric in his teaching, and one reason given for my being fired from my post at Haile Selassie Junior Secondary, where I was acting head of English, was that I had become too obviously sympathetic to the Rasta movement (there is an irony there somewhere).

Black assumption

There seemed to be a reason for this fear. Rastafari, with all its apparent strangeness, delivered a message of black assumption of full personhood and of rejection of the perception of himself as inferior. This would mean a revolution in thinking that would result in the white world relinquishing much of its power over the black man. And who wants to relinquish power?

The Rastaman#39;s message was delivered through his music. Bob Marley, its leading exponent, was a creative genius, but his creativity found its roots in his Rastafarianism. His message is possibly the most important delivered to the world by any entertainer, maybe any man, in the 20th century.

It is a tribute to the steadfastness, the courage, the vision, the clearheadedness and the creativity of these #39;ancient Rastas#39;, as Morgan Heritage calls them, that they are now a prominent part of our society. We owe them a great deal. Their vision of Jamaica#39;s and the black man#39;s quot;emancipation from mental slaveryquot; has not been fully achieved, but we would have been so much further back were it not for them.

Keith Noel is an educator. Send comments to columns@gleanerjm.com.

February 9, 2012

jamaica-gleaner

Caribbean Blog International