April 9 1970
In the midst of all this there was the death and funeral of Basil Davis. He had been shot by a policeman outside Woodford Square during an altercation in which he was a third party.
The story is unclear. It seems that intervened in an incident between a policeman and a brother. Police claim that he drew an ice-pick; other "eye-witnesses" deny this.
Regardless of the details, he was automatically lionized. A Power funeral. No black clothes allowed.We had been brain-washed into associating black with grief… wear red instead.
The brother was borne from Port of Spain to San Juan cemetery (4.5 miles approximately).
A procession estimated by various people as 10 000, 15 000, 50 000 people. Whatever the figure it was dramatically large. The first martyr had been made.
And so the stage was set.
Occasional arson (perpetrators not clearly identifiable as Power), police gun shot finding targets, one fatally, tear gas, marching, marching and marching; trade unions expressing support and planning to march; Bhadase rumbling; Hochoy goes on leave; labour disputes suddenly settled by Govt; big award to cane farmers; construction workers get settlements; business firms frantically giving a few Black scholarships; Christmas work at Easter; marching, marching, meeting, meeting…
And God……remains silent.
I was in that march from Port of Spain to San Juan. I marched not out of any sentimentality, but because I realised that things had reached a new and tragic phase. After weeks of strain, of being told to look out for some major act of violence, of being constantly on call in riot squads, of being allowed to arrest, rough up, and more recently shoot people without much or any explanation given, the police were now cracking under the terrific mental strain, and were now prepared to justify their violence to themselves. This was only a short stage from the step when the only Power in place would be the power of the gun.
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