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Perhaps the most surprising element of the general elections was the low voter turnout. According to the latest figures from the Election and Boundaries Commission, only 53.92% of eligible voters turned up at the polls. It is reported to be the second lowest in our history.
Given the high-pitched nature of the campaigns and the frenetic stream of activities, it was reasonable to conclude that this 2025 exercise had whipped up the population and engaged citizens so intensely that they would have been chafing at the bit to exercise their rights come 28 April.
Were we so misled by the unrelenting bombardment of paid political announcements that we created our own illusion of a widespread intent to participate?
Six weeks of traditional campaigning: walkabouts, rallies, meetings, accompanied by the expected goodies—did it summon up any additional fervour?
I know the figures show an increase in the UNC’s tally (the total was 335,165, as opposed 309,654 in 2020) but if you were to look at the breakdown of figures by constituency, the percentages of voters are remarkably low.
I think the highest was Moruga’s 65.38%, and a fair amount was spread out in the thirties.
(via UNC.)
So what can we ascertain from the coldness of the numbers? It would be so helpful if analysts could conduct some exercise to get a sense of what accounted for the apathy.
In the meantime, we are left to wonder if the chatter, chatter, chatter (from 3Canal’s Talk Yuh Talk) was really just noise: everybody talking, nobody listening.
The ceaseless noise over the past few weeks went to my head last Saturday.
I live on the edge of the Aranjuez Savannah and I am still suffering from the impact of the pounding to my already damaged ears.
The construction of a massive stage was an ominous sign. On the Friday evening, for over four hours, the air was rent by such violent sounds that it felt like the explosions of warfare.
In between bursts of music (I use the word loosely) of the most annoying kind, the rest of the noise was aggressive roaring and thumping.
Apparently, these were sound checks.
On Saturday, around noon, the noise resumed. It was ear-shattering, and it did not pause. By the time the Savannah began to fill up, the combination from the southern stage area itself and the music trucks that pulled up and stopped on the Priority Bus Route had my house shaking.
(via UNC.)
The windows were rattling—the wooden grooves on the ceiling were relieving themselves of accumulated dust. My kitchen counters were covered with it, my bathroom floor as well.
My ears hurt so badly that I went desperately searching for the various ear plugs and headphones that I had accumulated to drown out the sound of my neighbour’s welding noises.
Eventually I was in tears because my eardrums were vibrating and the pain was terrible. Tinnitus had my ears screaming and of course, I had a violent headache.
My daughter, who lives on the other side of the Savannah, called to see how I was faring. She had blocked up her doors and windows with sheets she rolled up—a version of sandbags—and was wearing ear plugs. She insisted I leave the house.
Stubbornly, I refused to be forced out of my space. She persuaded me that it was me who would suffer ultimately. She didn’t dare to leave her space because of her cats.
Then the fireworks erupted. The only time I had heard such loud explosions was some years ago, when the Police Youth Club spent 45 minutes in the middle of the day celebrating Independence with this monstrous outburst. Then, I had dogs. It traumatised them all. My eardrums were damaged.
I later discovered I was not the only one. One elderly man a good way down the street, lost his hearing permanently.
I fled. Taking a book with me, I went driving aimlessly, just relieved to be away from the warzone. After a couple of hours, I returned home, feeling fragile. By this time, the speeches were coming. But in between every speaker, the noise resumed, as did the sudden bursts of fireworks.
I had to keep reminding myself that this was the final day, that there would only be a couple more hours before it subsided.
Photo: PNM.
I looked at the footage of both rallies. The PNM’s at the Eddie Hart ground didn’t seem half as packed as the one in my backyard. It was hard to tell because the shots were tight and focused on the antics that were being performed on the stage.
Looking at the sea of yellow in the Savannah, I recalled the gathering in that same place when thousands congregated to celebrate the Caucus of Love, Unity and Brotherhood that was known as CLUB 88, which formed the UNC.
I feel there were many more people there that day. I have no memory that the level of noise was as offensive and brutal and barbaric. I cannot say if it was the same at the PNM rally.
I wish the Prime Minister and her new administration well, but would like to remind her that one of her campaign promises was to reduce environmental pollution and to strengthen and enforce the laws to protect us from these damaging and unwarranted attacks on hapless citizens.
My ears are still ringing. Loudly and painfully.
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Vaneisa Baksh is a columnist with the Trinidad Express, an editor and a cricket historian. She is the author of a biography of Sir Frank Worrell.
