By Gabriel J Christian
The electoral loss of Dr. Ralph Gonsalves in St. Vincent & the Grenadines marks more than the end of a long political reign. It symbolizes the collapse of a once hopeful progressive tradition that dominated the Caribbean political imagination of the 1970s—a tradition that inspired many of us as young people but ultimately failed to evolve into a mature, democratic, and institution-building force.
I was nine years old in 1970 when the Trinidad Regiment mutinied during the Black Power Revolution led by Geddes Granger. That uprising—fueled by anti-colonial passion—galvanized young Royal Military Academy Sandhurst graduates like Rafiq Shah and Rex LaSalle, who risked everything in the belief that the old order had to fall. On Dominica, the revolutionary tide also reached our shores. The radical intelligentsia at schools such as the St. Mary’s Academy, attended by our older brother, the late Dr. Wellsworth Christian, became electrified by the call for Black dignity and Caribbean sovereignty. It was in this ferment that the famous St. Mary’s Academy Black Power demonstration erupted. In our home, my siblings and I watched as our father and uncle engaged in robust debates about the future of Black people, the meaning of liberation, and whether Black Power would usher in justice or turmoil.
We were anti-colonial in a way our parents were not. Our gospel was simple and fervent: that socialism was the antidote to the horrors of colonialism. We were studied, idealistic, sincere, and right to question the inherited order. For that, I offer no apology.
Yet with the passing of time, wisdom casts a clarifying light. We did not fully understand democracy. We did not grasp the importance of the rule of law, the discipline of good personal character, or the role of private enterprise in stimulating a nation’s economic growth. Nor did we appreciate that the colonial enterprise—despite its undeniable injustices—also birthed institutions of genuine utility: independent courts that worked; socialized healthcare systems that were broadly competent; and a professional civil service governed by General Orders that declared a civil servant worked for the nation, not a political party. Even the old parliamentary procedures, derided by us as relics of elitism, were in fact buttresses meant to prevent arbitrary rule. And the police service, which today in too many of our islands functions like a party militia, was once expected to remain above political interference. These were lessons we learned only later—in some cases, too late.
Against that background, the downfall of the 1970s progressive class becomes clearer. Ralph Gonsalves emerged from that generation, but like many of his contemporaries, he presided over a political culture where the quest for power swallowed the duty of service. Too few of these leaders have ever reckoned honestly with the demagoguery and anti-democratic impulses that consumed the Grenada Revolution—a revolution so many of us once believed would be a new Jerusalem. Instead, they normalized electoral machines that function like traveling circuses, offering spectacle over substance and insulting the intelligence of our people.
Where is the intellectual discipline required to lead a people toward self-reliance? Where are the programs that cultivate academies of arts and sciences—chemistry, mathematics, engineering, agriculture, marine science, physics—the sober, demanding disciplines that build a civilization? Too often, our societies retreat into rum, dope, and the politics of dependency.
None of the leading lights of that 1970s generation have yet convened our people—at home and in the diaspora—in a truly nonpartisan way to confront our region’s crises: the collapse of scientific and technological innovation; the epidemic of crime that forces our citizens behind burglar bars; and the corruption that has turned many civil services into footstools of party leaders and their courtiers. They stand shoulder to shoulder defending men like Roosevelt Skerrit while the social fabric frays.
Until we educate our people in the value of nonpartisan service, until we restore the moral engineering once taught in every Caribbean household—“honesty is the best policy,” “birds of a feather flock together”—we are merely rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. Gonsalves did some good, as did Skerrit. But all good is undone when arrogance, dynastic ambition, and a lust for power create oligarchies that believe they must remain in office forever.
Ask any political actor of stature how much time they commit to civic duty, mentorship, or voluntary service in their communities. Too many will fall silent. Development has become a spectator sport, and too many of our elites occupy the gallery while the ship sinks.
I hope Ralph Gonsalves will write a rigorous memoir of his twenty-five years in office. True scholarship may emerge from it, and future generations—leaders like Dr. Friday included—might learn that greatness is measured not only in accomplishments but in humility, restraint, and the willingness to build institutions rather than cults.
The United States today, and our Caribbean archipelago as well, offer stark warning: societies that fail to cultivate sober thinking, disciplined citizenship, and robust institutions will become unhinged. The corrective action begins with honesty, historical understanding, and the courage to break from the intoxication of power.
Only then can we hope to build a Caribbean worthy of its dreams.