2020 VISION? NO, 18-18 TABANCA

On the morning of December 10, 2001, I leapt out of bed at 4.59. It was as if I were a participant in a bizarre digital race, the goal: to be upright before a change in the clock’s three red numbers brought on the day’s fifth hour. Rising a few minutes later that Monday would really have made no practical difference to my day, but it would have dealt it a severely negative psychological blow. I would have felt like the deflated commuter on the platform, you know, the one who has missed the morning’s first train by a second. My superstitious nature told me that this was a day for absolute precision; nothing could happen to shake or break the hour glass whose trickling sands were, grain by grain, taking the nation to a moment of break or make. The political seers- the pollsters- were predicting a tie in this general election, giving half of the 36 seats in the Republic’s Lower House to each set of representatives of the nation’s two rival tribes. 18-18! How exciting that combination sounded. To play my part in this historic outcome, I sensed I had to be up before five. Don’t ask me why.

The day before, in this very space, I had observed that 18-18 would be the most intriguing end to that year’s snap election campaign, and said, “if that were the case, for the first time, we would see a splitting down the middle of the political apple, or atom, depending on how TT handled the outcome.” I had also written that if the result were 18-18,  ‘the “people,” by splitting the parties’ power, would have reclaimed it for themselves. I saw a tie, not as a deadlock or a gridlock, but rather, as an opportunity for us to unlock the past, a decisive moment for the Republic’s citizens. It was the chance of a lifetime for a new sort of nation and national to be forged. After the supporters of the two rival parties had finally voted according to who they thought they were or who they thought they should always be, they could then be much more. Alternatively, they could throw the opportunity away, “take 18-18 outside,” remove it from the political arena to the streets. What would they do with it, I wondered? As I headed for the bath that 2001 morning, the clock did its digital crystal trick and the four, five and nine were transformed into a five and two zeros- 5.00, five am. Hah! Exactly one hour before the polls opened. I would be on the road long before then, right alongside the election vehicles ferrying the first set of party members to the voting stations.  The day was going well. By 5.30, when I was exiting my house, December’s sun, always late to rise and early to bed, was making a weak effort to compete with the electric bulbs on St Lucien Road. There was little light, yet energy emanated from everywhere, as both tribes dashed to the polls to prevent the destiny, that ironically, they were at the very time creating with their frenzy. I felt a guiltless euphoria as I spoke to voters for each side: for the first time, this race would not end in “we time now” or “we time now,” but “all our times”. However, I tried to hide my delight at the 18-18 feeling in the air because the UNC people were looking worried, dejected, the PNM ones, more confident than in years, determined to oust a “corrupt” government, which had “stolen” from them, their 2000 victory.

I did not know how the country would work out the specifics of any power sharing to suit its citizens and to keep democracy alive. I could only surmise that any arrangement would call not only for compromise, but forgiveness as well, on both sides. The parties were divided completely on the issues of corruption and the Constitution, but I wondered if some sort of Truth and Constitution Commission could not be appointed, something similar to that which had been set up by South Africa. We could thus, purge ourselves of so much poison. I really was looking forward to the next day and what it could bring. As I drifted around the Diego Martin Central constituency on this, the most politically utopian of days, I dreamt of times when no one would feel disenfranchised and thus, complain, rightly or wrongly, of discrimination. I conceived a nation where our political representatives would realise that they were elected to bring us the most basic of services, a decent standard of living, not fill us with false promises, threaten us or treat our strongest opinions with disdain. It was a land where our representatives were less beholden to the wealthy who through their obscene donations to campaigns were purchasing with a stroke of the pen, a bigger say in government’s decisions than 800,000 voters ever could with their right indexes. There would be less corruption and cronyism. Less crime. If we got it, right.

It would also be idyllic since our politicians would be relatively quiet, knowing that only short, intelligent utterances would keep them in our favour, a favour they would desperately need. There would be fewer lies, less propaganda and ole talk. There would be no Panday Indo-Trinidadian holocaust speeches, no Manning “father knows best” arrogance and intractability. The first would never loudly threaten to make the country ungovernable by playing his worn race card, nor would the second verbally squander every opportunity he was given to govern. Tabanca would not make Panday’s every word so bitter nor would 2020 visions of power make Manning sound so silly. Those were my idle dreams of December 10, 2003. These flights of fancy soon fled, as a lazy, conservative, panicked and puerile country chose the easy way out. On Monday October 7, 2002, the day of the next general election, I slept in. The pollsters were predicting a larger voter turnout than in 2001 and an end to the “deadlock.” The PNM was on its way to victory. A friend recently remarked that the 2002 result should have been the same as the previous year’s. He could be right. A second tie would have definitely forced change, put an end to a lot of nonsense and to the everlasting threat of internecine violence.
Today, in October 2003, with no general election until 2007, I have a sickening feeling that we will regret not having made more of 18-18 and thus, of ourselves.
Suzanne Mills is the editor of Newsday.