Through the Eyes of the Saint Lucian

The first sound you hear as morning arrives over Castries is the soft, rhythmic beat of a tamboo-bamboo striking once, mingled with the distant call of a tropical bird and the scent of fresh bakes and saltfish drifting from a nearby home. That drum-sound carries our story back to a time of volcanoes and sea, when we lived as the Kalinago (Caribs) and later the African enslaved who together shaped Saint Lucia. Our ancestors built villages along the coast, fished with nets in turquoise waters, grew cassava and fruit in fertile soil around the Pitons. The Kalinago knew their knowledge of the sea and nature, the African enslaved brought their rhythms and resilience. Every family knew the tales of the spirits, the dances around the fire that filled the night with rhythm, communities where sharing was natural and respect for elders was the law. That was our golden time: an island of mountains and sea, where people lived in harmony with the Pitons as father and the ocean as mother, connected by rhythm and survival.

But then came the wave from outside, like a hurricane rising from the Caribbean Sea. The French and British colonized us from the 17th century, fought 14 times over the island, turned us into a plantation colony of sugar and bananas. Enslaved people were shipped from Africa, their backs broken under the sun, their spirits smothered but never killed. Every family knew the loss: an ancestor who arrived in chains, a language that had to survive in secret, a culture that blended to endure. Independence in 1979 brought John Compton – hope that grew – but also the trials of a young island nation: poverty, emigration of youth, pressure of climate change on our coasts and hurricanes that devastate villages.

From that depth rises a pride that is warm and rhythmic. The tamboo-bamboo that still beats in carnivals, the bakes prepared with love, the Pitons that protect us. Our people laughing through hardship, our youth rising for a better land, our bond stronger than the sea. We have found our voice again: independence, hope growing on the island.

Yet the truth colors magenta like a sunset over the Pitons. The scars remain: memory of slavery, poverty in the villages, emigration of youth, pressure of hurricanes and climate change. The outside world buys our tourism and our bananas, but often does not feel the depth of a people who never broke.

Still, we remember in silence: around the tamboo-bamboo where music is made, during Independence Day on 22 February when we raise our flag, on the beaches where the spirits still speak – never forgetting who we were. We tell our children of the Kalinago and of Compton, of the sea and the mountains, so they know: we were connected and strong before we were challenged.

And yet… the tamboo-bamboo continues, warm and rhythmic, like a heartbeat that never falls silent. That is our secret: we have suffered under colonization, slavery, and storms, but first we were an island of rhythm and sea. For our children we build no walls, but a carnival square where everyone may dance. How do we let that drum-sound bring hope to everyone again? How does Saint Lucia remain a home of color and resilience?

January 2026

Manna Ori