Everyone has sha�red their thoughts about the attempted attack on our democracy in 1990, but Ive never heard the story from a childs perspective. So, let me share mine.
I was just a little girl living in Woodbrook. The evening started like any other until something changed. There was a strange kind of silence, the sort that makes even the walls feel tight. Then came the static on the television, the confusion in the adults voices, and the word no child should have to hear: a coup. It was a strange word.
I didnt understand politics, but I understood fear. I could see my mother reaching for the remote. Though we were told we were safe at home, were we truly safe?
My parents tried to shield me, masking the smoke and fear with The Little Mermaid on repeat on TTT, as if Ariels song could drown out the sound of gunfire. Yet while she sang of another world, ours was collapsing beneath us. Even as she longed to be part of a different world, cartoons played while the Red House was held hostage by men who looked like us, not strangersa painful truth.
That day exposed the fragility of our democracy. Peace is never guaranteed, but we survived because our institutions held firm: the courts functioned, the Constitution remained intact, and the streets calmed.
Those who took up arms cited real grievances: poverty, inequality and corruption, but violence is no path to justice. Ironically, the rule of law they tried to break is what ultimately saved the nation.
Thirty-five years later, its still referred to as an attempted coup, as if the trauma never happened and lives werent lost. Words may soften history, but the pain remains. Survival is not the same as healing. As calypsonian Mystic Prowler says, our wounds run deep, often hidden beneath the surface.
I was 11 when I lost my father that day; my first love, my hero, my safe space. For years, I couldnt speak of it without tears or anger. When flags were raised in 2019 for the 24 victims, I wondered if my father was remembered. That commendable act reopened wounds but also marked the start of my healing. What about others whose grief remains unacknowledged?
I feel frustrated towards those who film others pain, yet I wondered if those raw images might have forced the nation to confront the tragedy. Could July 27 have become a vital lesson in democracy and sacrifice? Instead, many memories remain buried and trauma lingers in silence.
Former president Paula-Mae Weekes expressed this pain during the 2025 National Day of Prayer, thanking God for democracy and the privilege of voting freely, reminding us that those who sought to rob us of it ultimately failed.
This is why July 27 must never be diminished. It was more than just an event; it broke something in us. Activist Wendell Eversleys annual walks to the Eternal Flame serve as acts of resistance and remembrance. His call to mark the day for reflection rather than rest must be heard. Even Jamaal Shabazz, once part of the uprising, wept during the enquiry, acknowledging a wrong. If we dont teach what nearly broke us, how will the next generation understand what held us together?
What we need now is more than remembrance; we need civic repair. Ima�gine a national July 27 Civic Memory and Healing Project, integrated into storytelling, education and care, spanning the ministries of Education and Culture. Curriculum modules on demo�cracy, civil rights, conflict and resilience would start from Standard One. Storytelling competitions, oral history archives, and a focused approach would provide students a creative outlet through poetry, music and art. This separates First World thinking and us.
This cannot be a one-time observance, but a lasting national commitment to defend democracy through vigilance and memory.
As David Rudder poignantly asked in 1990: Will we see a tomorrow where our children will truly be free? It is strange, the more we change, rearrange, everything just seems the same... This moment calls us to reflect not only on what has happened, but also on who we are and who we choose to become. When words fail, let the music speak. We are, after all, a calypso nation and our most courageous truths have always been sung before they were spoken.
Mystic Prowlers Below the Surface captures the essence of the leader then and the trauma we buried: You see, he had the stuff great men are made of, its the stuff you could miss unless you look below the surface. Yet, we have not done enough to honour those who died or the pain that lingers. We cannot heal what we refuse to confront. Our history books say nothing about that day, classrooms avoid it and leaders speak of healing without naming the wound.
Now, as a parent myself, I know this story must be told not just for my father, but for a nation still learning what democracy truly costs. We must stop sweeping July 27 under the rug. Its not a day for paralysis, but for a purposeful pause, a moment to confront the truth. Coups dont always return in uniform; sometimes, they slip in quietly when a nation refuses to look up and reflect.
Scarlet Benois-Selman is an educator, author and advocate for equity.
