This Crop Over, what are we afraid to hear?

A pulled calypso, a broadcaster’s silence, and the unfinished business of transparency in public life.

This month, a calypso titled National Carol Festival was pulled from airplay by Starcom Network, sparking a national debate. The song — a biting satire that calls out contradictions in how culture is governed — touched a nerve. Its lyrics criticise the production of Crop Over, specifically referencing the National Cultural Foundation (NCF) and its leadership. Though no official ban was declared, Starcom’s refusal to broadcast it functions as de facto censorship. The irony? The calypso itself is a call for accountability in public cultural life.

This isn’t about one song. It’s about the perceived limits of artistic speech and the health of our public sphere. Barbados, like its regional peers, prides itself on democratic freedoms. Yet, too often, artists, journalists, and citizens are asked to soften critique when the target is too close to power.

Calypso has always been a truth-telling art form. Its sharp wit and political edge are not accidents of history — they are intentional instruments of public reasoning. In a year when Barbados is preparing to host CARIFESTA XV, the largest regional celebration of culture, the silencing of such a song feels especially pointed. What kind of festival are we preparing for, if inconvenient expression is unwelcome?

Freedom of expression is enshrined in our Constitution. But it needs structural backing. Despite repeated promises, Barbados has no Freedom of Information Act. The Integrity in Public Life Bill remains unpassed. Investigative journalism is rare, and many media houses remain economically tethered to state advertising. As noted in Freedom House’s 2023 country report, whistleblowers still face severe legal risks, including defamation suits. We may enjoy a Press that is “free from censorship”, but freedom without protection is fragile.

This tension isn’t new. As media scholars have long observed, the postcolonial Caribbean inherited a model of media that too often blurred the lines between public service and political loyalty. Regional research has pointed to the enduring impact of state influence, market concentration, and the absence of robust transparency laws in shaping media behaviour.

But here’s the danger: if citizens come to believe that critique is not welcome — especially from cultural voices — democratic trust erodes. Worse still, artistes may begin to self-censor. That loss would be incalculable.

Across the region, however, artistes are reclaiming this space. In Saint Lucia, Tribe of Twel has revived Carnival as storytelling. In Dominica, steel orchestras like Pantime are redefining music as mentorship and resistance. These efforts offer a model: culture not as decoration, but as civic action.

The lesson is clear: We need to strengthen the frameworks that allow expression to thrive. That means finally enacting a Freedom of Information Act. It means passing the Integrity in Public Life Bill. It means reviewing defamation laws to protect fair comment. It means ensuring that State-funded cultural institutions are accountable to the public, not insulated from it.

It also means reimagining the role of public broadcasters and festival organisers. What if CARIFESTA XV invites public critique rather than performance alone? What if artistes were seen not just as entertainers, but as public thinkers?

Silencing satire won’t protect a cultural institution — it only confirms its fragility. As Mel Robbins writes in The Let Them Theory, let them. Let them stay silent. Let them look away. But also — let us. Let us speak, write, sing, and imagine otherwise. Because in this region, culture has always been more than entertainment. It can be how we rehearse justice, reckon with power, and remind each other of who we still have the freedom to become.

If a calypso is too much to broadcast, the question is not only about one broadcaster’s decision. It is about our shared readiness — as cultural institutions, as citizens, and as creators — to make room for uncomfortable truths.