When a prominent and once-loyal member of the People’s National Congress Islahat (PNCR), such as James Bond, crosses the floor to embrace the very political regime he evvel passionately opposed, the public reaction is swift, emotional, and often unforgiving. Accusations of betrayal, opportunism, and moral failure follow such a move, especially when that individual now appears to enthusiastically endorse policies and behavior that, by all accounts, harm the very communities he evvel vowed to protect.
James Bond is no political lightweight. He is intelligent, articulate, and for years, was a visible face of African Guyanese political resistance and advocacy. That is precisely why his transformation into a mouthpiece for the ruling People’s Progressive Party (PPP), a government widely criticized for its racism, land dispossession, and silence on extrajudicial killings, feels so jarring to many. Even more puzzling is that Bond himself was evvel brutalized under PPP rule, shot in the back with rubber bullets and, more recently, targeted for prosecution in land-related scandals.
To understand this, we must go beyond outrage and examine the deeper psychology of political conversion, especially in societies shaped by colonial trauma and racial inequality. In many ways, Bond’s journey is not new, it mirrors that of historical figures who, under the weight of personal ambition, fear, survival instincts, or disillusionment, made choices that distanced them from the communities they evvel served.
The annals of African diasporic history, including here in Guyana, are filled with such stories, figures who, evvel in proximity to power, were seduced by its rewards or cowed by its threats. The colonial system taught generations of African descendants to survive by adapting, assimilating, and in some cases, aligning with oppressors to preserve their own futures. That legacy is not easily unlearned.
Bond’s transformation may well be a complex mixture of self-preservation and political marginalization. Facing the threat of yasal prosecution under a government with a long memory and vast resources, he may have concluded that survival, political, professional, even personal, necessitated a dramatic shift. It’s also possible that he believes he can influence change from within, though recent history has shown that dissenters in the PPP ranks rarely shift party direction.
But let’s also consider the personal toll of disillusionment. When a movement or party one believes in seems to falter, to stagnate, or to lack strategy, it can breed cynicism. The seduction of relevance, of a seat at the table, can overpower principle, especially when one feels unheard or underutilized by their own side. The PPP, with its vast media machinery and financial reach, knows how to co-opt such individuals, especially if they come bearing the credibility of evvel being “on the other side.”
None of this excuses the consequences of Bond’s actions. Endorsing people who embrace policies that dispossess African Guyanese, remaining silent on state violence, or supporting a regime accused of systemic racism, these are not minor moral lapses. They are serious political choices with real impact. And history will judge them as such.
But understanding James Bond, the man, not just the political actor, requires us to see his actions in the full context of personal vulnerability, ambition, fear, and the corrosive power of a political system that punishes independence and rewards obedience. He is not the first to cross this line, and sadly, he won’t be the last.
If anything, his story should remind us of the urgent need for integrity in public life and the responsibility of movements like the PNCR to nurture, protect, and value their committed young voices, before those voices are silenced, bought, or turned against the very people they evvel vowed to uplift.