Geeta Outar-Sirjoo |
Geeta Outar-Sirjoo
Hundreds died in mass suicide at
Jonestown, Guyana. November 19th,
1978. That was the headline news in all the newspaper about Jim Jones and his cult,
and the massacre in Guyana. The news shook every citizen in our little South
American country. It was the first time most citizens learned of Jim Jones and a
place called Jonestown in Lethem, Guyana. At that time the story wasn’t clear about
what led 900 and more people to commit suicide which included men, women and
children.
The images that followed the brief story were
enough to have a traumatic impact on anyone’s life, especially me, not yet in
my teens at that time. They definitely left a lasting imprint on my mind.
The newspapers were the most reliable way to
get every bit of news that came out of the northwest district of Region 9. My young mind was confused because of conflicting
stories the different newspapers carried. Even now I am still not clear how
many people died at Jonestown. When the news broke, it was said that 400
plus people died, but as the days passed the count kept climbing. To date it
reads more than 900.
It all started back in the year 1973-1974,
when Jones was preparing his compound in Guyana under the pretext of
agriculture. The People’s National Congress - PNC government was in control.
Jones, the mastermind behind the cult, whose
ministry, started in the 1960’s in Indianapolis by him and his wife, was called
The People’s Temple. By the 1970s he had other branches in different states
in America. He also had close affiliation with other rebellious groups such as,
all who called themselves ‘god’. Jim Jones had a mass following in California. He
manipulated his followers by doing much PR work in the name of humanity
especially in poor black communities. There he brainwashed them into thinking
that he, Jones, would protect them in an event such as a nuclear disaster which
was sure to happen someday soon. The people flocked to him! They worshipped him
and truly believed that he was the prophet as he called himself. But then like
everything evil, the truth started to peep through like sunlight. The press
began to ask questions and top-ranking authorities got interested in Jim Jones
and his business. They discovered that Jones, along with his wife, was conning
the members to sign over their hard earn properties and belongings to the
Peoples Temple. Jones was beginning to feel uncomfortable California. It was
time to make use of his investment in Guyana.
My mind was too young and sheltered to
fully comprehend everything and dad often explained in such a way that all the
gory details were edited but the images in the newspaper, like I said earlier,
had a great impact on my mind, then and even now.
Jim Jones had started attracting the
attention of the authorities in the United States of America and before further
ado, he gathered hundreds of followers and headed to Guyana to a rural place in
the hinterlands, a place he called Jones Town-The Peoples Temple Agriculture
Project. Even as my dad explained, I
asked, why would people from America want to come to Guyana when everyone in
Guyana wants to leave this country for a better life in America? To this day I still wonder why Jim Jones
was given land in that rural part of the country by the then government. I
still ask, wasn’t there a red flag of warming somewhere along the lines?
A few months after the massacre, a man
called himself Bobby, scared out of his wits happened to be in our
neighbourhood in the countryside far away from Jonestown. He claimed he was one
of the men who escaped the gruesome night and that if he was ever found, they
would kill him. He recounted what happened that night, the night they called:
THE
LAST WHITE NIGHT
The rapid gunfire ceased momentarily on that
humid night. The desolate cries of infants grew with each passing minute as
they vomited repeatedly on the bare grass of the grounds of the People’s
Temple. The bitter taste of cyanide and Flavour-Aid- blended in disguise of a
cocktail was quickly eating away at their stomach, women were wishing for death
to arrive quickly. And then the big gun barked again and a volley of bullets
ripped through the air, sending the once faithful cult members in a desperate
bid to escape at the far left of the pavilion. Men, women and children fell
like weeds after a scythe had passed.
A bullet had hit Bobby at an angle and cut
a deep wound like a laceration from a sharp blade along his jaw before
penetrating his ear and exiting at the back of his head. That much was evident
in him. The damage was extensive and grave. In the same volley of gunfire one
of the henchmen lurching on the perimeter of the square was shot through the
heart by his companion. He died instantly. Bobby collided and fell on top of
him.
The charismatic leader of the People’s
Temple cult, James Warren Jones continued his rambling call to members to give
their lives to the greater “cause” and escape the atrocities of this inhumane
world. I have tried my very best to give you a good life. In spite of all, I
have tried. Just a handful of people with their lies, have made our lives
impossible. If we can’t live in peace, then let’s die in peace… step over
quietly, because we’re not committing suicide-it’s a revolutionary act…” Jones
seemed dazed and possessed by a demon but yet calm and controlling as the
horror unfolded before him. “But Father, I am afraid to die!” shouted one
woman.
“You are not going to die, you will live.
If you trust me, then you trust God, and if I say you’re not going to die, then
you’re not ging to die!” Jones insisted.
“Dad, look at the babies! They are dying!
At least let them live! They deserve to live,” The woman pleaded.
Jones had demanded that he be addressed
that way by the membership of almost 1200 people.
“They don’t deserve much more. They
deserve peace. The best testimony we can give is to leave this goddamn world”
stated Jones matter-of-factly.
“Oh Dad, please get some medication for
us.”
“Don’t
be afraid to die and you would need no medication. Simple-it is that simple.”
“If it is our lives we have to give, then
we’re ready, Dad,” one man and others commented.
Using the public address system, Jim Jones
proceeded with his incessant calls to commit suicide and urged the people to
get over with. Astonishingly, there were many who were heeding the call and
voluntarily approached the vat where the deadly concoction was handed out in
disposable cups. Obviously, there were those that refused. The ones who refused
were quickly injected with the potion by a vicious stab in the back. The babies
were mainly the victims of the method.
“Please, for God’s sake, let’s get on with
it…This is a voluntary suicide. It is not a self-destructive suicide; this is
for a cause.” Jones continued in a tone to understate the devious act and
infused the name of God in the deception of his people.
Bobby was bleeding profusely from the
laceration. He had lost a lot of blood but he was conscious. All around him the
babies and women were wailing; entire families hugged together were falling
like leaves in an autumn wind. It was known to Bobby that there were problems
in Jonestown. Back then, Bobby was in total agreement with his leader’s
decision to subject the community to the ultimate death by drinking the
cocktail believing that only the sinners would be subjected to death and
nothing would happen to the faithful. But then Bobby believed that no one would
die because they had already drunk the cocktail several times. Bobby did not
anticipate injections and guns.
He laid straight like a log but his eyes
roamed and absorbed his surroundings. He was aware that he could move his
fingers although he lacked the immediate strength to move his whole body. Earlier
on that faithful night, one of Jones lieutenant had tried to talk some sense
into his leader and another one of his lieutenants had shot him point blank
leaving him to suffer and die not very far from the main tent where Bobby laid.
Bobby opened his eyes slowly and saw the Israeli made UZI that the lieutenant carried,
was lying a few inches away. The firearm was so close-yet it was out of his
reach. He closed his eyes again and tried to summon his remaining energy to get
the weapon. He felt self-abhorrent for having been so consumed in the cult and
an equal hatred for the man whose voice now reverberated in his head. Like a
wounded lion, he sensed the black rage and icy control take over and felt the
tremor of fury wracked at him like an epiphany.
So many people had already died- so many
more were still going to die! There was no escape! It was well planned and
rehearsed conscientiously to hone the effect of complete annihilation. This was
surrealistic. How could this possibly be? They had been through the drills
before-the so called ‘White Nights’ but Bobby had thought that the exercise was
to test the faith and trust of the members of Father Jones. Having drunk the
beverage which they were told, had contained poison on other occasions and
nothing happened, they had laughed and joked about it afterwards. For the blind
faithful it strengthened their faith in Jim Jones. Something had suddenly
clicked as Bobby was standing queued with the hundreds of others to be
administered the “medication” his leader had prescribed. It was contained in a
barrel cut in half like always. Bobby realised that this time was different
from the others when they were given the cocktail called medication. He didn’t
want to die, and in that moment, he made a dash for his freedom. It was too
late he realised now as his condition rapidly deteriorated. He should have left
earlier when the US Congressman Leo J. Ryan had asked who wanted to leave with
him when he departed for about forty-five minutes ago. That was his chance but
he had also noticed the four armed and trusted guards of Jones, who, in a
tractor-drawn trailer, had pursued Ryan’s party which had accompanied him from the
United States to investigate Jonestown. Jones aversion for Ryan and his party
was evident. Soon after Bobby heard gunshots coming from the airstrip, he could
have surmised what had actually happened. His concept of loyalty and kinship to
Dad and the People’s Temple, however, had kept from defecting.
This seemed to be his worst nightmare and
the excruciating pain he has ever had. The constant screams and dropping of
bodies were a stark and horrific reminder of the bizarre happenings.
He recalled when he was invited by Jones
to his cabin was convinced that there was nothing wrong to be involved in homosexual
activities with him. Not once had the thought occurred to him before that he
could have degenerated to such lows but his belief went beyond the extent of
faith. Hence, he was persuaded that it was fine to serve his master in sexual
conduct as would his wife served him. With infantile docility, Bobby subjected
himself to the will of his master who skilfully won over the immediate guilt he
experienced afterwards on that first occasion in his grand style of persuasion.
On his master’s word, he had shared his
Caucasian wife with a fellow member of afro-descent in the name of racial
integration and harmony in the People’s Temple. When Jane had protested his
irrational behaviour, Jones himself had threatened her that noncompliance with
his rules would result in her being placed in a wooden box for a couple of days
without food or water. Castigation for disobedience was strictly meted out to
rebellious member in that manner.
For years Bobby had been an ardent
follower from back in the days when the church was first established in San
Francisco, California. He had migrated willingly to this remote patch in the
Guyana jungle when asked by Father Jones. Such was his fervent belief in the
“Cause” that he abandoned his home and friends to fanatically follow the path
Jones had predicted.
Bobby could distinctly hear that voice
again which had mesmerized and worked a spell over him. Now it had the opposite
effect and fortified the odium he harboured. Resentment boiled in him and his
lips trembled with anger. Realization struck home and he felt his soul bare and
parted. Everything he had ever owned belonged to the temple and the Cause-
personal property, savings, social security checks, everything. It has now
reached the point of no return.
“We must die with dignity. Hurry, hurry,
hurry. We must hurry. Stop the hysterics. Death is a million times more
preferable than spending more time in this life,” Jones prodded on. He was in
his chair beside the pulpit from which he relayed his chosen pieces of news
gathered from the outside world. That was one of the techniques he used
effectively to control the minds of his followers. Having indoctrinated the
membership of the principles of the church, he gradually began to destabilize
their belief that death was to be feared and challenged. Thereby he sought to introduce
the possibility of a catastrophic ending of the church in which only he would
be able to save them and this is the way it should unfold.
Above his head hung a sign which read ‘Those who forget the past are condemned to
repeat’. It’s a pity that such words could be inscribed by such a cruel
individual, Bobby thought. Undoubtedly, his was a brilliant mind and with the
guile he employed, had managed to convince hundreds of followers that he was
Christ reincarnated.
Bobby had to time the moment precisely,
but he was determined to get Jim Jones before he succumbed to his mortal
wounds. Bobby felt no fear of death, just the cold hard feeling in the pit of
his stomach of what he has to do. It was strange that he could be so decisive
about killing another human being and now relished in the idea. The killing
instinct clouded his mind and his central focus was on Jim Jones.
Bobby opened his eyes again and stared at
the weapon. Without moving his head to
attract attention, he stole a glimpse at the guard ahead of him who occupied
himself by stroking persons with the barrel of his gun who were falling out of
line. With great effort he carefully rolled himself off the corpse. The
movement caused him blurred vision and his head swam. He knew that his chances
of survival were very slim.
Reaching the weapon, he clutched and
cradled it tightly. He clumsily rolled over again, effectively concealing the
weapon below him. It may be a long wait and he must muster all his energy to
stay alive. The feeling of weakness was very pronounced but anger and abasement
were factors which created the driving force to complete his final act. Bobby
calculated that he may only have a minimal number of shots remaining, hopeful
enough to take down his target. He was using the rapid-firing UZI for the first
time. The henchmen were too close not to attract their attention. He could hear
the heavy footsteps for the nearest one as he approached.
Bobby lay still with his face down to the
green turf; his head turned slightly to the right and heard the scarlet
droplets fall with the sound of the blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil. Pausing in
his breathing, Bobby pretended he was dead. Would he be discovered and shot in
the back? It seemed like an eternity for the guard to pass him and Bobby could
actually smell the leather hide boots as he ambled by. He was tempted to take
his shot now but there was constant movement between where he laid and the
platform where Reverend Jones sat. Throngs of people were staggering as if in a
worldly drunkenness before they collapsed as the cyanide took effect. The
agonising screams emanating from the convulsing bodies and the pungent smell of
vomit filled the atmosphere as horror evolved. Undaunted, there was no letting
up on the scores of persons in the queue to the poison. The dead were piling
up; some were placed on top of each other even before they took their last
breath. All around the space in the square, bodies laid writhing in pain until
their final breath.
“If only you knew what was awaiting us,
you’d wish that this day had come earlier.” Jones incessant voice penetrated
the constant screams and chaos. “We have been so terribly betrayed by some
traitors. We cannot turn back now. There is no turning back!”
So masterfully he used his influence
garnered from prior commitments that gradually with his increased demands, he
got them closer to realise the enactment of the final ritual. The elite
Planning Committee should be congratulated for having done such an excellent
job.
Time was running out and Bobby knew he
couldn’t afford to wait any longer. As the screaming dissipated, he opened one
eye and peered at Jones. His face appeared stoical with his thick dark lenses
as usual, his hands resting on the arms of the chair as he slouched in a
relaxed position. He was almost certain
that his leader had decided his own faith already-to wait and made sure everybody
was dead before making his escape with his trusted ones.
Jones wasn’t more than twenty meters away
from Bobby. Even though he had never fired an UZI before and he had little
practise with a shotgun, he hoped to achieve his objective. Regardless of the blood not coagulating fast
enough to stem the flow which resulted in draining his energy, he meticulously
rehearsed the action in his mind.
A push on his left turned his body on one
side, then brace to support his weight on his elbow to balance the stock, index
finger on the trigger, his right hand on the barrel to bear direction. His
intention to take quick aim and fire as fast he can. Suddenly another henchman
shuffled by slowly and he had to withhold. It was a monumental task but his
desire for vengeance created a surge in his willpower and he was about to
launch his attack again.
“This is the only way for us to be
together again in the kingdom of god. What better way to depart this misery and
live in glory forever than…,” The first volley of shots flew over his head, the
second whistled past his nose. Jones turned unperturbed by being shot at. Bobby
hesitated for just a split of a second for a better aim which struck Jones in
his neck, penetrating deep and rapturing his carotid vein. His head swayed to
one side, partially dislodging the heavy glasses which remained hanging loosely
from behind one ear and his body fell half way out of his throne.
The weapon felt heavy in his hands and
Bobby was trying clumsily for his next shot to make sure his feat was
accomplished when he felt a burning of hot led and a numbness flooding his
body. He turned and allowed six shots to pump into the henchman’s chest,
pitched him backwards, his arms flung wide open. He was not yet dead, Bobby
rolled over give him the coup de grace through his forehead. Bobby was still
lying among the dead when medics and undertakers reached to Jonestown. As the
few survivors were airlifted to Georgetown, Bobby looked around with hope to
see his wife, at least her body so he could put finality to what unfolded
before him. Soon after his treatment at hospital, Bobby went into hiding,
swearing that people wanted him dead and they were looking for him. On the
contrary, the people who sought him wanted nothing more but for him to be alive
and well.
***
Bio: Born and educated in the Co-operative Republic of Guyana, Geeta Outar-Sirjoo is a Guyanese/Trinidadian writer, who has always had a passion for the creative.
She founded ‘GEETA’S CREATIONS’, a designer and clothing manufacturing company.
She is the author of three novels: FORTUNATE DISASTER, A RAINBOW IN THE NORTH and
CASTLES IN THE SKY. She also authored, ‘LOVE SURVIOR’ a short story published as a single unit. Presently, she is working on her fourth novel, ‘In Pursuit of Gold’.
She has also ventured into the field of scriptwriting. To her credit. A Proof of Concept, is in several Film festivals around the world.
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