Why does Ellington retire all of a sudden? A decision, reports The Gleaner, "based on the need to separate (himself) from the leadership and management of the Force." Is it linked to the interim report into the conduct of members of the security forces during the joint operations in 2010 in Tivoli Gardens, as suspected by some? Minister Peter Bunting is positive: Owen Ellington hasn't been pushed out. Anyway, Owen is seen as a professional who has modernized and cleaned out the Force.
The Gleaner published an interesting list of his achievements:
- The May 2010 Tivoli Gardens operation
- Adidja 'Vybz Kartel' Palmer's high-profile murder trial in 2013-2014. Kartel was sentenced to life imprisonment, to serve 35 years before parole.
- A decline in serious crimes such as murders, rapes and robberies.
- Allegations of a death squad within the JCF.
- Removal of more than 400 police personnel from the JCF for unethical behavior.
- Merger of the Jamaica Constabulary Force and the Island Special Constabulary Force.
- Formation of the Lottery Scam Task Force in 2012 at the heights of the lotto scam, which took on wide international interest.
- Imprisonment of two of Jamaica's most notorious criminal figures - Christopher 'Dudus' Coke and Christopher 'Dawg Paw' Linton.
- Formation of the Major Organised Crime and Anti-Corruption Task Force (MOCA) in 2012, targeting crime kingpins and their facilitators, including lawyers, bankers and other public officials.
- 2011 conviction of police sergeant Russell Robinson, who was sentenced to 15 years in massive guns and ammunition find (18 firearms and 9,540 rounds of ammunition from the police armoury) on Munster Road, off Mountain View, St Andrew. Three civilians pleaded guilty and got 10 to 13 years.
- Introduction of body cameras for members of the police force this year.
It was also he, alongside Peter Bunting, who granted the author of THE GANGS OF JAMAICA to follow some police patrols, a rare authorization. It was probably motivated by a desire of transparency.
Probably because of unconditional support received by the recently sentenced artist by the street, Commissioner of Police Owen Ellington went on TV to clear a few things out. He made it clear that despite the lack of evidences, Vybz Kartel has been known as a serious gang leader by the police for years, and that his gang is responsible for more than a hundred murders. The crime of "Lizzard", for which he was recently condemned to 35 years, was just the tip of the iceberg, said Commissioner Ellington.
The public pressure was apparently important enough for the top policeman of Jamaica to explain himself on TV, trying to fight the propaganda spread by Kartel's supporters who claim the artist is the victim of a plot.
Check out Annie Paul's very interesting blog for a thorough inquiry on Kartel's trial.
a.m. The ghetto of Armour Pen, in Kingston, seems quiet. I’ve come to check
Bramma, a young rude boy who survived the political wars of the 1990s,
and who spends most of his time at his girlfriend’s bar, on the main road. Out
of the blue, a youth comes into the bar, bumping into me without really noticing.
Seventeen, maybe eighteen years old. He has a dark look. After a short and
tense discussion with Bramma, he jumps on his bicycle and pedals quickly down
the road. Bramma calls out to the people in the bar: “Shevanne’s gone for his
brother with a knife!” Every one rushes outside—looks like trouble’s ahead.
Down the road, Shevanne throws his bike away and starts to yell at his brother
who hangs out with an up-to-no-good bunch of gangster youths. He’d like him to
leave them and to join his own little gang. The discussion comes to an abrupt
end—Shevanne takes out his knife and cuts his brother’s arm. As blood spills,
his brother’s friends get mad and chase Shevanne away by throwing stones at
"In the 1990s, there were proportionally more killings in our little community than in New York. It was Iraq down here."
did not last more than a couple of seconds but the whole community is upside
down. In Jamaica, such an incident can turn into an everlasting war, generating
blind shootouts and innocent victims. Further down the main road, a house still
bears the stigmata of the latest drive-by shooting that cost the lives of two
persons. It left some impressive holes in the wall, as big as golf balls. What
kind of gun can cause such damage? The mediator of the community, an old-timer
who tries to maintain peace through dialogue, laughs: “AKA-47, man.” Around
here, people shoot at each other with army rifles. Armour Pen is a notorious war
zone, a divided community. During the 1990s and the 2000s it was probably
the most dangerous place in Kingston. Wars often break out over a stupid
incident, a harsh word or a stiff look. “There’s nothing we can do right now,”
says the mediator regarding the incident between Shevanne and his brother. “We
have to wait for the dust to settle. The youths threw stones and picked up some
batons but them remain pon the sidewalk. It means they did not run for their
guns. That’s a good omen. The only problem being—” Yes? “Today ah-Friday, the
day when they go out at night with them friends, to drink and smoke.” The
mediator shrugs: “Well, there was a time when gunshots would have started long
ago. In the 1990s, there were proportionally more killings in our little
community than in New York. It was Iraq down here.”
week later, our taxi stops exactly were Shevanne cut his brother. Our driver
looks concerned: “You sure you know what you’re doing?
We good, man, everything is all right.”
speaking patois surprises him, he wonders what we are looking for in this
volatile community. He eventually drives away, glancing at us a couple of times
in his rear-view mirror. We look around us, trying to look as cool as possible.
After all, someone is expecting us. His name is Rico, the Don of one of the
small gangs who rule Armour Pen. Each gang rules a precise territory where it
usually extorts money from taxi drivers or businessmen, and sells girls or
drugs. Earlier on the phone, Rico told me he would not come to pick us up, we
would have to cross the river by ourselves and enter his turf where one of his
soldiers would wait for us. “What will he wear?” I asked. Rico smiled on the
phone: “A yellow T-shirt, man.” Under the bright sun and in front of the
gorgeous landscape of the nearby luxurious hills, all these precautions seem
derisory. But violence in Armor Pen always sleeps with one eye open. Let’s say
that the risk seems acceptable today. A few years ago, before the downfall of
Dudus, the taxi driver would have refused to carry us down here as he could
have been held responsible, if something happened to us. As a matter of fact,
two months after we were there, a dozen masked gunmen raided a nearby lane and
tracked their victim down to his house, shooting their way in to murder him.
Another man jumped through the window to save his life.
"Unwritten rules are crucial in the ghetto. You live by these rules, or die by them."
Pen occupies a hillside. On the crest, the main road is divided into what are
gently called communities with rough war names. Turfs run from the crest
to the foot of the hill, where a river traces a natural frontier with another
turf, Rico’s kingdom—where we are heading. Rico usually lives in peace with the
communities from the hillside, but sometimes he doesn’t. Right now, there is
tension. It all started when one of his soldiers had an argument with an
elderly man from the main road community. Bramma, the youth with the face of an
angel who spends his time in front of his girlfriend’s bar, stepped in, to
settle the argument. He laughs when we ask him about Rico: “Him and him boys—shitty!
Them look for trouble, man. Rico says me should have never said anything to him
soldier—shitty! They just try to expand them territory to extort people from
the main road. But this is our community, we won’t let you disrespect people around
here, man. Else it would mean we are weak.” Unwritten rules are crucial in the
ghetto. You live by these rules, or die by them. Tension has risen through
different messengers who go to and fro between the two communities to carry
news, but things have not come to a breaking point yet—they could, though, in
the twinkle of an eye.
cross the river under the burning sun, jumping from one big stone to another.
This river reminds me of violence in Jamaica: a few streams gently running down
to the sea, making a delightful noise; but when the tropical rain pours down,
water rushes down the hill, raging and exploding against the river banks,
destroying everything on its way. Once it starts, it is already too late—nothing
can stop it.
we’ve been walking in the open, we are under the watch of a sentinel. We can’t
see him, but we know he’s here, hidden somewhere on the other bank. Rico puts
sentinels all along his frontiers. All gangs do... Everywhere you go, you can
see youths sitting on concrete walls. You might think they’re just skylarking,
they’re not—they’re on a mission. They observe and report every suspicious
move. Sentinel is the first step on the ladder of crime. A few days earlier, as
we were talking to Rico in front of his house, or yard as Jamaicans say,
the Don’s phone vibrated—he took a look at it and suddenly went for a small bag
of ganja (marijuana) in his pocket
and threw it away. We observed him, puzzled. A few seconds later, a pick up
from the police slowly drove by behind us. “It was a sentinel,” smiled Rico,
showing his phone. “I’ve got one in front of the police station, permanently.
As soon as the police come out, I know about it.” Hard to catch him red-handed;
even harder to catch him gun-handed.
"We know about you foreign journalists,” he says. “You French are the worst. You’re going to judge us and to tell the world God knows what..."
in Jamaica, are seldom shown—except at night, maybe, the killers’ hours.
Otherwise, covered with grease, wrapped in old rags then placed in plastic
bags, they are carefully buried underground. The police rarely catch gunmen
with them—unless they are on the rampage, or ready to commit a crime. A
policeman from the Mobile Reserve, coming out of a well-known hang-out of the
Clansman gang in Spanish Town, sounds disheartened: “We have no metal detectors
and their guns are buried close by.” The lack of resources is only one of the
many disadvantages linked to one of the most dangerous jobs in Jamaica, namely,
being a police officer. Torn between the wish to do well, the corruption of
some of its members and political pressure, the Jamaica Constabulary Force
(JCF) is conscious of its weakness and fears outsiders. The Director of
Communication of the Force, Mr Karl Angell, is a former journalist who
obviously holds a grudge against his one-time colleagues. He reluctantly
welcomes us to his tiny office in Up Park Camp, smoking a cigarette. To follow
police patrols? “We know about you foreign journalists,” he says. “You French
are the worst. You’re going to judge us and to tell the world God knows what—like
the Human Rights Watchgroups that keep on complaining: Why don’t you use Taser
rather than deadly weapons? Do they have any idea of the price of a Taser?
We already have trouble matching the machine guns of gunmen, not to mention the
shortage of ammunition. Had it depended on me, you would never have obtained
this authorization.” But it had not depended on him, but on Owen Ellington, the
Commissioner of police, and Peter Bunting, the Minister of Security, who
jointly granted us this rare privilege. They did not justify their decision.
Probably a desire for transparency? The welcome remains distant, though. “The
last time we had some journalists,” says Sasha, a young policewoman from the
Mobile Reserve, “they were lovely. They remained with us for four days. Then
they put out their documentary: Killer Cops of Jamaica. Don’t be
offended if some of us are a little bit distant.”
police hardly feel supported by the authorities. And this is an understatement.
They are well acquainted with political ambivalence. Speaking to HG Helps, a
journalist from The Observer, the super cop Renato Adams, retired from
the Force in 2008 after sixty years of service, does not beat about the bush: “One
of the reasons we could not deal with the crime as it was at the time was that
people like me who advocated certain laws and actions were bluntly refused by
the Government. This would include eavesdropping equipment, which I asked for
when I went to the CMU (Crime Management Unit). I asked for certain other
equipment to set up instruments covertly and to videotape what was being said,
using the technology available at the time. This was refused, as the
Administration said that it would be encroaching on the human rights of
criminals.” Some unknown political forces would be at work, suspected to be
responsible for the dismantling of the very efficient King Fish squad. In 2007,
under the JLP administration—the party behind Christopher “Dudus” Coke—this
Special Task Force Unit was suppressed without any reason and the official
Commission in charge of the investigation seems unable to explain this
decision, nor to find out who took it. Several Ministers of Security and
influential members of the Force have been questioned, but no one knows where
the order came from. It could only have been given by the Ministry—but no one
can be blamed in this story where no one knows anything. (...)
Christian Nedian from Camera in the Sun talked to Thibault Ehrengardt about Jamaica, gangs and cinema. Check it out:
INTRODUCTION: Thibault Ehrengardt is a Paris-based journalist, and former-editor of French reggae magazine, Natty Dread. A longtime fan of Jamaican reggae music, Ehrengardt began publishing Natty Dreadin 2000 — the name inspired by the 1974 album from Bob Marley and the Wailers. The magazine ceased its print run in 2010, and Ehrengardt shifted over to a book publication business: Dread Editions. His Jamaica Insula series includes the 2010 French-language edition of Laurie Gunst‘s landmark 1995 memoir/history of the confluence of Jamaican crime and politics, Born Fi’ Dead. Her book recounts the often-deadly competition between the island’s two largest political parties: the Jamaica Labour Party, led from 1974-2005 by Edward Seaga; and the People’s National Party, led from 1969-1992 by Michael Manley. Moreover, Gunst interviewed Kingston gang members, who dwelt in housing projects conceived and constructed by the JLP and PNP as political garrisons to ensure loyalty — and armed with guns to do battle with rivals. The most notorious of these is JLP stronghold Tivoli Gardens, once lorded over by Christopher “Dudus” Coke. His leadership title of “don” reflected a crime culture whose power structures took influence from American mafia hierarchy — and whose gunslinging “posses”, or gangs, idolized the badman elements of American Western film lore. The bloodiest period of Coke’s tenure in Tivoli Gardens unfolded in late-May 2010, when Jamaican army and police launched a days-long assault aimed at executing an arrest warrant issued at the request of the United States, which was set to prosecute Jamaica’s most-powerful don for trafficking drugs, guns and ammunition. The ensuing gunfight claimed the lives of over 70 people, and plunged West Kingston into a state of emergency. While Coke survived and was captured, Prime Minister Bruce Goldingreceived heavy criticism for his opposition to Coke’s extradition, and resigned his office in September 2011. Soon after, Ehrengardt returned to Jamaica as part of a television crew documenting Kingston gangs. He decided to gather his findings into a 2012 book, Gangs of Jamaica: The Babylonian Wars — publishing an English-language e-book version in 2013. In his introduction, Ehrangardt notes that his book serves to reveal “the dark face of Jamaica, a morbid reality shared by three million people who live under the yoke of organized crime, its armies of child soldiers, and a bunch of ruthless politicians”. Camera In The Sun spoke with Ehrengardt about Gangs of Jamaica, reggae music and films, and Kingston gang life within the power vacuum left by Coke’s arrest.
Read the rest of the article at CITS by clicking on the picture above.