Where are ‘we’?

The 56th Caribbean Broadcasting Union (CBU) Annual General Assembly rolled seamlessly into the XV edition of CARIFESTA in Barbados last week. The WhatsApp group created for CBU delegates morphed into a prolific platform for CARIFESTA advisories and impressions.

Some of us stayed on to capture early glimpses of the regional spectacle, while others caught the action online.

This sounds like no big thing, right? Yes, because it happens all the time. Those who have been following the work of the Association of Caribbean MediaWorkers (ACM) – now headquartered in Guyana - and Media Institute of the Caribbean (MIC) – based in Jamaica – should be aware that for most media folks the Caribbean paradigm flows naturally from the work we do.

As an autonomous project of the MIC, the Caribbean Investigative Journalism Network (CIJN) has been on the CBU winners’ roll over the past few years. Our teams span the region and work together as a single unit.

CIJN awardees at CBU XV

This is not just about showing off – which is okay by me – but making a point about the expression of Caribbean regional cohesion through means outside of the formal institutional arrangements expressed through Caricom and others.

So, after posting some photos from the CARIFESTA parade of nations on social media, a friend and colleague asked me: “Wey we?” – meaning she had not seen any shots representative of her country’s contingent. “We are in all the shots,” was my cryptic response … in the hope she’d know what I meant by that. A laughing emoji followed.

However, sceptically invoking the question of “we” - after so many years of collective effort, triumphs, and shortcomings - does not automatically represent failure, even as there is promotion of a notion of collective will and responsibility.

I was, within hours of that exchange, to argue during an online discussion on human rights, constitutions and elections in Guyana, Suriname, and Trinidad and Tobago that formulations of integration are often devoid of a sense of cultural sensitivity. This includes interpretations and versions of the philosophical menus on offer.

When I spoke of fish broth, cowheel soup, pelau and cook up – Surinamese public intellectual/human rights activist Sharda Ganga reminded us that we are still able to identify the discrete ingredients of cook up (and all the other dishes, I quietly mused).

“Where in all this are WE?”, in this context, is thus not an entirely unreasonable question – the three countries under review (Guyana, Trinidad and Tobago, and Suriname) being the broader subject, but CBU and CARIFESTA and Caricom and ACM and MIC included by implication.

We know the old “melting pot” and “tossed salad” conundrums well, but so often forget the pelau and cook up concoctions. Yes, I am negotiating a most circuitous route to today’s question about engagement and disengagement of a collective future.

In conversation with Julius, and later Franka and Peter, I bored them yet again with questions of “self-esteem” and “self-confidence” in engaging the present and fashioning the future. This space has endlessly cited CLR James and Lloyd Best, but there are several others who framed the same questions in different ways.

Casual, uninformed dismissal of the communal, regional approach to individual problem-solving is thus both hurtful and harmful. If “we” have not now realised that we have nowhere to go alone as small, vulnerable, but resilient and creative nations, we have learnt nothing.

Even so, our formal and informal arrangements all contemplate disagreement and even injurious battle. It’s what happens with family. We have been here before in 1972 with recognition of Cuba, and the Grenadian tragedy of 1983. There were sharp divisions regarding Aristide’s ouster in 2004, and there are Caricom countries with diplomatic relations with China, and a few others with Taiwan.

Some of us even stop speaking with each other from time to time. When PetroCaribe was launched in 2005, Trinidad and Tobago (for obvious reasons) and Barbados were unenthusiastic, with the others arguing that far-reaching engagement was the result of enlightened self-interest.

Some in Trinidad and Tobago and in the region meanwhile saw the accord with Venezuela as a betrayal of sorts, especially since there were implications for Caricom arrangements built into the PetroCaribe agreement.

Even then, there were numerous bilaterals and multilaterals that remained in place involving Venezuela and Caribbean countries. For instance, T&T’s relations with this troubled neighbour are not restricted to oil and gas collaborations, and Venezuela’s persistent Essequibo claims had not disappeared when Guyana signed the PDVSA Energy Cooperation Agreement in 2014.

So, we argue at times even to the point of defamatory and degrading assertion. Today, you see, is me, the next day is you. But at the end of it all this is really about all ah “we” – whether we like it or not.

Patriotism, Politics, and Noise

The cancellation of this year’s Independence Day military parade has understandably generated substantial scepticism, outrage, and a wide spectrum of other postures and emotions. Even as I have myself never developed an appreciation for the event, I fully understand why people might feel aggrieved at its absence.

All of us can identify family, friends, neighbours, and colleagues who never miss the spectacle either as enthusiastic witnesses, social networking and entrepreneurial opportunities, or as a forum for exhilaration derived from a sense of national belonging and even pride.

These are valid concerns that should not be dismissed or trivialised. This should not be an occasion for affected partisan alarum or an occasion to score political points. There are strong, genuine feelings on the subject.

In all this I do not, as some have, deploy use of the word “patriotism” which is so often interchangeably, and openly, represented in degrees of what can only be described as coercive fascist sentiment.

It is unlikely that any ruling administration in T&T will openly acknowledge what thinkers like VS Naipaul, Lloyd Best, and others described as the absurd, self-delusional role of militaristic displays in post-colonial societies like ours. Popular opinion tends to intervene in ways that can be politically damaging, you see.

Even so, it does not help that cohesive official messaging on a rationale for elimination of this year’s parade and associated activities, has been so casually, even recklessly, ignored. This newspaper addressed some relevant questions in its Monday editorial, so nothing more from me on that here, except that this business of military protection of national sovereignty has been described as something of a nonsense in our context.

That said, today’s missive is meant to draw attention to one other aspect of the move - the elimination of noisy pyrotechnics – with which I absolutely agree and hope it becomes a permanent feature of both public and private celebrations at all times of the year.

Successive governments have been hypocritical in condemnation of such practices citing violation of anti-noise pollution principles and law, while openly facilitating or ignoring activities associated with it. Not very long ago, there were no such anti-noise reservations when it came to election canvassing, and the subject did not find recurring space on the campaign trails of any of the contestants.

But, as has been argued repeatedly here and by several interest groups, there are numerous pre-existing conditions designed to eliminate or reduce the effects of harmful noise from a wide variety of sources. In none of these is a state of public emergency cited as remedial.

If fact, a promise of new laws or new umbrella legislation also does not appear to highly commend or recognise a variety of other legislative and regulatory measures – some of them longstanding and have occupied prominent public relations space in the past across the political spectrum.

The question has always been about effective enforcement and application of determined action in the face of official duplicity on the subject. How many times before have we heard the “zero-tolerance” talk? Some of us have learned not to hold our breath when it comes to this, even as parameters for tolerance are subject to cultural relativism under the law/s and some traditions – good and bad.

Have a read of Rule 7 of the Noise Pollution Control Rules of the Environmental Management Act. There are exceptions (under specified conditions including the use of sound amplification) related to religious practices, sporting events, and even the use of “motor-operated garden equipment.” Yes, the wacker guys have a bligh of sorts between the hours of 7.00 a.m. and 7.00 p.m.

So, a promise of fresh legislation is unimpressive on its own. We already have the Noise Pollution Rules, the Explosives Act Chap 16:02, the Summary Offences Act Chap 11:02, and the Public Holiday and Festival Act Chap 19:05. Some activists on the subject can also routinely rattle off other provisions at law, even when not referencing more intangible features of respect and care.

So, it’s almost all there already with clear explicit and implicit roles for the police, the Environmental Management Authority, local government bodies, the courts, civil society organisations, individual civic-minded citizens, and, importantly, politicians with fixed moral anchors.

Let’s see how this one goes.

What pan means

So, it’s Steelpan Month 2025. It’s worth our while to remember this in these rather dark times during which self-confidence is frequently challenged.

Pan, you see, is among the great hopes of T&T in ways not easily recognisable to the recently introduced, uninitiated, or wholly ignorant. It fully deserves its place on our coat of arms, if not in all our hearts.

Scan this newspaper space over the years and note such emphasis in defiance of the lure of seasonal compulsion and expressions of surprise by occasional panyard tourists who argue about Panorama rules and results.

“When the oil is gone,” I asked the late Keith Smith as we walked along Independence Square sometime in 1985/86, “what else do we have to keep us going?” His response was an unintelligible grunt.

Some years later, I was seated on a plane next to a T&T government advisor on energy matters. I asked him the same question I had asked Keith. “For as long as the planet is viable, there will always be oil and gas,” he responded. Full stop.

I have told this story numerous times before partly to dismiss a notion of sudden revelation, novelty, or my own sudden realisation of pan as an important component of our developmental path.

The other motivation has always been to stress the instrument’s value beyond the beauty of music delivered – however much this is subject to matters of taste. Yes, you are fully entitled not to like pan music. But it’s more than the music.

Even so, if we wished to dwell on the point of the music alone, we could also speak about the industry and genius that reside behind the quality of music produced by our national instrument.

My son, Mikhail, has directed a soon to be launched video documentary on the life of musician Jit Samaroo as part of the Iconography series by Pomegranate Studios. View it and have this point indelibly engraved in your mind.

If you have been paying attention, you would have also noted that there is no shortage of commentary and debate on this aspect of the steelpan phenomenon – the music. But it’s still not enough.

Last week, I came across a video produced by social media content creator, Tisha Greenidge (@tisha.t.tish on Instagram), featuring young pannists of Arima Angel Harps and Diatonic Pan Academy responding to questions about what pan means to them.

Yes, this appears to have been meant mainly for the converted who will have little trouble understanding, but if you are curious about the subject of pan’s socio-cultural value, make sure you have a look.

Kim Johnson’s Illustrated History of Pan explores the question differently in its chapter on Tomorrow’s People, Von Martin’s Voices of Pan Pioneers muses retroactively, Patrick Roberts’ Iron Love sees pan in art via Desperadoes, and numerous others have explored the subject at different levels. But young Greenidge’s young pannists get straight to the point of what pan means or can mean to people.

Spending time among young participants of the Birdsong Vacation Music Camp last week  helped stress the point to me that the habit of saying we should use pan to keep young people occupied and out of trouble is to completely misunderstand its place in the world of music and culture.

Birdsong Academy music director, Derrianne Dyett, made the point that music education is valuable in areas outside of its worth in producing creative content. We have witnessed this in the way children from a variety of backgrounds interacted positively with each other at the camp, and the keenness with which they engaged otherwise tedious tasks.

The attributes displayed are not all unique to the steelpan. For example, last week’s concert by the Youth Philharmonic was also full of love.

I have been following young people and their music for years now and seen it repeatedly. Music has a way of doing that. But the steelpan which emerged post-emancipation as an act and enduring symbol of defiance against gigantic odds reaches even further.

So, yes, I am one of numerous advocates for monetising and realising somewhat latent economic value in pan via unique high-quality expertise, intellectual property, and our status as the Global Mecca of Pan. But there are other qualities not always recognised.

Ms Greenidge asked: “What is the first word that comes to mind when you think about pan?” Hear them: “vibe”, “courage”, “unity”, “expression”, “journey”, “dance”, “connection.”

Pause for a moment and think about anything else we do here that comes close to matching this. It’s Steelpan Month. No better time to focus on this question.

 

The tripartite illusion

In small economies such as ours in the Caribbean, there are bound to be anomalies in the formal arrangements designed to achieve industrial peace, and ensuing wealth generation, involving workers, employers, and the state.

In many instances, therefore, tripartite arrangements reflect multiple points of duality. The state remains a major direct and indirect employer in most states. Workers’ representatives are declining in status especially with a growing majority of workers employed in the informal, non-unionised sector, and through new investments that include no such compulsion.

There is also routinised reliance by private sector actors on the state as a client and/or financial benefactor in one form or another.

This does not render a notion of “tripartism” an overly tidy prospect. The globalised template does not sit easily with our reality. This subject came to mind because of two experiences overshadowed by recent political shenanigans here.

The first thought was inspired by the participation of Labour Minister Leroy Baptiste at the 113^th Session of the International Labour Conference in Geneva in June. The second came during the brief visit of ILO Director-General Gilbert F. Houngbo to POS in April.

Baptiste is not, of course, the first politician emerging from active duty in trade unionism to occupy such a post and to be exposed to and made to address the tripartite question on a global stage. It is also not the first time that the state as a direct/indirect employer is occupying the public space in politically inconvenient ways.

The withdrawal of organised labour as a decisive player in the industrial relations world is also nothing new. Unions now represent just about 25% of the working population in T&T. So, there was Minister Baptiste – minus the open nuance of dual status – pledging to “re-establish and revitalise the national tripartite body to improve our dialogue with labour bodies”.

That was June. Let’s see how that goes. Before that, in April, the ILO office in POS responded to questions I had posed to DG Houngbo by pointing to declining trust among the main players and implications for the socio-economic well-being of our countries.

Almost everywhere you go, the ILO argues, economic and political instability is disrupting jobs and breaking down trust between workers, employers, and governments. The Caribbean hasn’t escaped that impact, and if you look closely, we are probably experiencing the worst of it.

Suriname, Belize, and Guyana are strengthening their tripartite bodies. Barbados, during and after the pandemic, also used its long-standing Social Partnership to manage major decisions - from job protection to tax reform. Yet there is, instructively, little acknowledgment on the ground in these countries of these officially declared achievements.

Social dialogue, comprising the three main players -  and I would add the unrepresented working class as a fourth and distinct constituency - is near total collapse in most of our countries. Some of this is due to the duality of interests as is the case in T&T – largely expressed as the state as - presumably but not reliably - a significant, benevolent employer.

There is also the state as sole/main provider when it comes to social protections. My concern is that the unrepresented cohort employed in the burgeoning informal sector is particularly victimised by the absence of institutionalised dialogue on such matters.

There has been a longstanding thrust aimed at the micro and small enterprise sector to encourage entry into the world of formal business. But it appears that the cultural bars to this have overwhelmed the institutional processes.

By this I mean that even as this sector is increasing in importance and, in a sense was a pandemic lifeline, our systems of governance continue to marginalise the associated enterprises.

Meanwhile, informality is weakening labour protections, dampening tax revenue, and undermining sustainable growth. In this respect, the ILO is suggesting that governments have not done nearly enough to tackle this.

Policies to shift workers and businesses into the formal economy are weak. Even worse, numerous registered companies are now relying more on temporary, unstable contracts that blur the line between formal and informal work.

There have been efforts by the T&T Chamber and other business groups, but these are yet to reach the level at which a broader embrace is achieved. The current administration would do well to pay much closer attention.

In the meantime, real, non-farcical, multipartite social dialogue awaits. We are nowhere near this in T&T. Trade unionists in power have never made a real difference, have they?

 

A constitution and voices on pause

Last Saturday’s T&T Guardian provided a fair, well-informed synopsis of our experience with states of public emergency since 2011. It’s worth reading. Get a copy and keep it for future reference.

For some of us, lived experience reaches back more than 55 years though. For a few, it begins in 1937 amid labour unrest. If we take the time to consider the objective circumstances distinguishing each episode, we can begin to unravel both their intent and outcomes and assess their appropriateness … as is the current challenge of 2025.

Sadly, there’s been little from academia or the legal field stepping up to help us make empirical sense of it all - the history, contexts, and now all 12 pages of the 2025 Emergency Powers Regulations (EPR).

Believe me, I’ve been scanning news and social media pages since last Friday for independent, informed expert commentary. It’s been rough going.

That word again - “independent” - a status viewed with suspicion in these times of single-message partisanship and punished with derision and scorn.

Even the newspaper columns by “independent” voices we ought to hear have been disturbingly absent or distracted - perhaps (if I were to be mean) wary of gratuitous official disfavour or the withholding of reward.

So, it fell to journalists last Saturday to outline the basics and to stimulate dormant awareness. For those of us particularly attuned to human rights issues, and justifiably disturbed whenever they arise, there’s also the recognition of deeper psychosocial consequences that transcend politics and ideology.

Because emergency powers are not experienced equally, not all of us felt touched by the turmoil of 1970. For many, it “had nothing to do with us … we not in that.”

Same for 1990. I remember radio callers wondering why there was such national alarm about something “only happening up north.” One person asked about a pizza competition; others chose peaceful slumber while the country was under siege - a mere “family quarrel” for some.

Then came 2011 and 2021 - differing in both intent and effect. The latter aligned more closely with Section 8(b) of the Constitution - “pestilence or (of) infectious disease.” The former far more tenuously linked to 8(c) involving “public safety.”

Had those with the skills and time occupied the crease, they might by now have provided useful comparative analyses of the 2011 and 2021 regulations versus the 2024 EPR - whose tone chillingly echoed 2011 and set off alarm bells for the rights-conscious among us.

As someone invested in freedom of expression, I note that even in the absence of explicit curfews, bans on assembly, or free movement, such prohibitions can be easily imposed.

For example, EPR 12(a) allows for the seizure and interrogation of computers and electronic devices – through state-sanctioned “home invasions.” And if, by some stretch, this very column is deemed able to “influence public opinion in a manner prejudicial to public safety” (EPR 11), I could find myself in trouble that ordinary law does not routinely cover – as target of a regulatory “drive by.”

This isn’t all theoretical. We had objected to such broad surveillance powers when the Data Protection Act was being shaped. And yes, we still retain seditious communication provisions under the Sedition Act. See where I’m going?

None of this suggests that we don’t face serious threats from organised or random criminal violence. Or that plots of all kinds don’t exist. The Police Commissioner does not appear to readily engage in fiction. But I thought that was why legislation has become increasingly draconian over the years – for the PC and his charges to go after the culprits.

We have Anti-Gang legislation, an Anti-Terrorism Act, a vast suite of criminal law, and ongoing security operations - all presumably capable of disrupting prison-based criminal conspiracies, detecting and dealing with planned political assassinations, intercepting illegal arms, and even preventing missile-launcher threats on government buildings.

But even these measures come with their own baggage: concerns about due process, excessive penalties, and infringements on property rights, mobility, and speech.

That’s why people have questioned the justification for the emergency measures in 2011, 2024, and 2025. For some, this applied to 1970, 1990, and 2021, which many such as I saw as far more consistent with constitutional intentions.

One major challenge in unpacking all this is the uneven impact on different communities and interests - and how perspectives shift depending on political alignment. Some find nothing wrong with 2025 but objected to 2024. Others who opposed 1970 are now cheering on 2025.

People without even one cocoa bean in either a rising or setting sun might be few and far between, but we don’t seem to be hearing their voices in the present din.

The digital gap

So, here I am yet again - digitalisation and technology and our refusal as a nation to embrace prospective benefits.

If you have been following this constant refrain over the years (no, I was not silent about it “for nine and a half years”) you would know that I have been consistently calling out the gross negligence.

I have not been alone, and I won’t call any other name but that of my media colleague, Mark Lyndersay, who has repeatedly (and in vain) pointed to the shortcomings in our own embattled sector and the penalties we have already begun to pay.

So, this is not about everybody else except us. All ah we falling short. As a sexagenarian journalism educator, I am also acutely mindful of the fact that the current digital generation is eons ahead of the outgoing analogue ruling class but pay a heavy price through derision and scorn for their psycho-social assets.

This is particularly so when those in charge are called upon to grasp the requirements of tools associated with intelligent automation, of which generative AI is but one component.

Routinely and incorrectly described as “AI,” intelligent automation is the banner under which much of current technical innovation resides, including “AI”, machine learning, and data analytics.

I am employing time and space to get to the point, because decision-makers often appear ignorant of the fact that discrete tools of significant value are not standalone features of the process of automation.

Past understanding of this has meant that there are no government ministries of hammers and screwdrivers. We have had, instead, ministries and agencies charged with developing specific infrastructure – houses, roads, and buildings – the end products or aspirations.

In the current context, the world has also gone beyond basic mechanisation, electrification, and early digital automation. Enter 70-year-old “artificial intelligence” as an enhanced tool of automation with generative capacity, but not as an end in itself.

See where I’m going with this technology thing? As a related aside, let me point to one of my several peeves. It’s Wednesday today, and by now I would have completed a silly little form presented to exiting air travellers.

It is a form minus a field I have had to use my pen to complete because somebody in authority, and lacking self-esteem, thought that this piece of paper needs the expiry date on my passport (which is already right there in my airline booking, by the way … and on the passport you just swiped on your machine!!!).

If I had the space here, you have been able to see (on an AI-generated diagram I have created) where that piece of paper resides along the evolutionary chain of automated processes. This is like driving a steam-powered car. Watching TV without a remote. Calculating a bill with an abacus.

If it is of any comfort, we are not the only ones finding comfort lodged in the sewer line of the obsolete. In fact, there are other countries that (legitimately) have the arguments of limited virtual and power infrastructure, prohibitive costs, socio-cultural obstacles, language constraints, and systemic economic circumstances that prohibit progress to new levels.

Then there are those, like us, that trail behind on account of glaring policy and regulatory gaps, trust deficits particularly by those in charge, and resistance to change by key operatives.

I happen to believe the latter condition applies both to the state and private sectors. We should all by now be brutally aware of the attractive digital facades that skilfully mask manual backends … complete with pens, pencils, and paper.

It is thus not encouraging in the context of all of this, to hear of what appear to be belated learnings, leading to official excitement, on the need for “technology” in policing, or that “national identification” is to be deployed in their current static manifestations as an instrument to assist in monitoring citizen activity. 

The thing is, that for official policy to be data-driven and scientific in the modern era, there needs to be a high number of readily available, digitally generated datasets focused on the issue being addressed. Or else all you have is vaps and arbitrariness … or the least reliable quality of all – political intuition compulsively subject to folly and prejudice.

So, yes, there is a connection between our general tardiness when it comes to engaging technological transitions, and decision-making based on reliable, scientific information.

If you are catching my drift, this is all linked to the form they hand you on the plane upon your return. It’s also relevant to the mysterious gap between 21 and 25-year-olds. Think about it. Please!

Rickey, Roy, and Hans

At the time of writing, one prime minister, one president, the Caricom Secretariat, and dozens of journalists, public officials, politicians, and development experts have paid tribute to Caribbean journalist Rickey Singh.

He will be laid to rest in Barbados a week from now, but his 65 years in journalism have cemented his place in the Caribbean public space.

Barbados 2011

His daughter Wendy has led the effort to organise and lodge his extensive archives at UWI Cave Hill - a task that reveals the magnitude of Rickey’s remarkable accomplishments. He was born on Monday February 1, 1937 in rural Canal 2 Polder, to a young couple who bore no surnames.

His father, Pharsadie, died when Rickey was just two months old. His mother, Dudhia (known as Jessie), passed when he was about eight or nine. Rickey’s birth certificate simply listed him as “Ramotar.”

Jessie is remembered as a youthful agitator for fair pay and transport for women farmers, since only men were transported to the fields. She died young but appeared to have left Rickey with the conviction that effective advocacy could bring about meaningful change.

He entered journalism at 17, and his early promise was such that the publishers of the Graphic newspaper, the Thompson Fleet, sent him to the University of Indiana to hone his skills. During political unrest in in Guyana in 1974, they relocated him to England, but he felt strongly that his family could not thrive in a society that viewed them as “less than what they are” and he returned to the Caribbean.

Fast forward to the late 1970s. My grand uncle, Rev. Roy Neehall - my grandmother’s youngest brother - would frequently mention “Rickey” during our talks about a possible writing career. Uncle Roy eventually made the connection, and Caribbean Contact, then edited by Rickey, became one of my first freelance platforms.

Uncle Roy also played a pivotal role in introducing me to the late, great Hans Hanoomansingh, who, like Rickey, passed away last Saturday. Three men - Rickey, Hans, and Roy - different in many ways, but united by an unwavering pursuit of what they believed to be just and right.

Uncle Roy, a so-called “left-wing” Presbyterian Moderator and later General Secretary of the Caribbean Conference of Churches who died suddenly in 1996, was deemed a troublemaker by some.

Hans, who was not a radical by any means but an effective change agent, often spoke of his admiration for Uncle Roy, and some claimed their voices were almost indistinguishable. Our conversations invariably circled back to visits to the Neehall home in Trinidad and Canada.

When we worked together at Radio 610, I asked both Hans and management why his brand of East Indian musical content wasn’t more present in “mainstream” programming. That dream materialised at 103.1 FM, which he helped pioneer with media visionary Dik Henderson years later. It was the country’s first 100% East Indian radio station. Hans later launched Heritage Radio with a broader programming range.

Rickey’s name would come up now and then in our conversations, but my own professional journey eventually brought me closer to the Guyanese journalist. I’ve often described him as a “journalistic father,” shaped by a rugged work ethic and prolific output.

When I was offered the post of PRO at the Caricom Secretariat, I was told that Rickey’s endorsement had helped seal the deal - such was his influence. He had already carved a reputation as leader of a formidable corps of Caricom Summit regulars: Canute James and Hugh Croskill from Jamaica, Peter Richards from Radio Antilles/CANA/CMC, Bert Wilkinson of Guyana, and Andy Johnson, Clevon Raphael, and Sharon Pitt from T&T.

We all marvelled at his command of the issues and the passion with which he engaged contemporary regional issues in every field of endeavour.

One of these days I will recount the heartbreak of 2021-2023, when Rickey, gravely ill, tried to resettle in T&T. I have the receipts. It was a sobering chapter that reinforced my belief that his deep love for the Caribbean was not always reciprocated. Experiences in his homeland, Guyana, together with Barbados, and T&T feature in a complicated tale supportive of this view.

But his voice endures - etched into the region’s memory as a relentless chronicler of Caribbean life and politics, shaped by hardship, and sustained by purpose.

If a common resting place for those who have served well does indeed exist (as all three believed), there is most likely now an interesting confab comprising Roy, Hans, Rickey and others reflecting on how the place we occupy can be made better.