The global community celebrated Diwali just a few days ago, and here in Trinidad and Tobago, we too enjoyed the gift of a public holiday to honour the Festival of Lights.
This Diwali season, more than any other, led me to pause and reflect on the years past, on our rich diversity, on our people, and on the uncertainty of the unknown.
In the days leading up to Diwali weekend, there was a familiar sense of communal joy and introspection; that sacred rhythm of light and togetherness that seems to fill our streets and hearts alike. What always stands out about this time of year is how, in our twin-island republic, we continue to resist the global obsession with “cultural appropriation.” Instead, we live with cultural appreciation.
Every year, Trinbagonians of every faith and race move about their daily lives and bedazzle our streets with traditional wear such as saris, anarkalis, lehengas, dhotis, without hesitation or fear of judgment. As a child, I didn’t realise how rare this was. It wasn’t until adulthood, when videos went viral abroad of people being criticised for wearing clothes “outside their culture,” that I came to understand how special it is to grow up in this melting pot of Trinidad and Tobago.
Yet this year, one thought stood out more than the dancing deyas and bejewelled outfits: a recurring theme that seems to echo through all our celebrations, whether Diwali, Carnival, Emancipation, Spiritual Baptist Liberation, Arrival Day or Independence. Each one tells a familiar story: of darkness overcome by light, of liberation, of resilience, and of hope.
And that word hope, feels different now.
In Trinidad, hope has always been stitched into our public festivals, into the music, food, and colour that bring us together. It’s also woven into our respect for those who came before us. But in 2025, an age where social media doesn’t just occupy our devices but our daily consciousness, hope has evolved. Much like the Oxford Dictionary updates its definitions, we, too, have redefined what hope means.
For many, hope now feels inseparable from the longing for peace.
We carry on our daily lives, often numb to what unfolds around the globe, and I can’t help but think that the ocean no longer separates us from the world’s conflicts; social media has become that ocean. Users launch verbal missiles across platforms, their words explosions of vitriol, unaware or unconcerned about who may fall in their digital crossfire.
Do we ever stop to reflect on the irony of it all? How different are these online wars from those waged with real bombs and bullets? Both leave devastation in their wake, one physical, one emotional.
Because the truth is, just as war ravages nations, online hostility ravages our homes.
Maybe one day, we’ll look up from our screens and realise we’re not so different from those we condemn. The real challenge isn’t just preserving our traditions or celebrating our festivals, it’s remembering who we are as a people.
The question remains: how many of us truly live in Trinidad and Tobago and how many simply dwell in the nostalgic version our forefathers once knew?
