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A code of silence
Posted: Sunday, November 25, 2001

By Donna Yawching

RECENTLY, reading about the "model school" air quality report, and Education Minister Roy Augustus' reluctance (indeed, refusal) to share it with the teachers, it occurred to me: This country is run like a Masonic Lodge. Not that I know very much about Masonic Lodges, but I understand they're very secretive organisations; and these are exactly the principles that are at work in our corridors of power. Another possible analogy might be the Mafia, where the code of omertà (silence) is the pivot around which all else revolves.

The T&T government is very similar. Once you've been elected, or appointed, to a position of authority, you suddenly join a very select club from which the rest of us are excluded: a club that controls the flow (or rather, the trickle) of information that is allowed to reach the public. And that trickle is permitted to do so only when it is in the inner circle's interest; anything negative is firmly suppressed.

Western democracy is based, essentially, on the public's right (yes, "right"-not "privilege") to know about all matters that concern its wellbeing. Our version, by contrast, treats information like a dangerous drug that must only be meted out in tiny doses, for the people's own good. Secrecy may be acceptable in issues of genuine national security, involving things like armies and bombs and whatnot; but most other areas of information do not fall under this heading.

Access to information is vital to the working of a truly participatory democracy. Lack of such access partially explains why our populace, in the mass, votes along emotional tribal lines, rather than through rational evaluation of the candidates: people simply cannot get hold of the facts. Truth is as closely guarded in this country as a death-row prisoner-seldom allowed to see the light of day.

This secretive approach is the rule, not only in the higher reaches of government, but all the way down the line. An attempt to get even the most banal piece of information from any government department will find you facing a brick wall, more often than not: everyone is suspicious of why you might want the information. I recall trying once to get some basic statistics from the office of the Supervisor of Insurance and the Central Statistical Office: You would have thought I was Osama bin Laden requesting the formula for anthrax.

In theory, the recent Freedom of Information Act is supposed to make such obscurantism a thing of the past; but of course this is a farce, since the process is slow and unwieldy. Few people are prepared to fill out lengthy forms and wait months or years while a government department decides whether the divulging of a simple fact or figure will put anyone's job at risk. And, of course, given the already-existing structures of secrecy, information is a thing that can simply be denied-or, as recent events suggest, put through the shredder in the dead of night. Destroying information is one way to ensure that no one gets at the truth-particularly when a bulldog investigative reporter like Camini Marajh is nipping at your heels.

And this, of course, is where the media come in-or, at least, where it should come in (currently, Marajh is the only true investigative journalist in this country). Our leaders have no intention of sharing information with us, because much of it is incriminating, and could destroy their political (or patronage) careers. Secrecy is in their vested interest, and they know this only too well. This is why we seldom hear the outcome of much-ballyhooed government "investigations" into corruption, or industrial accidents, or official ineptitude: the answers invariably make the authorities look bad.

In short, if the media (or the trade unions, on occasion) didn't force the facts out into the open from time to time, you'd never get to hear about anything.

Do you think, for example, that Mr Panday would wake up one pre-election morning, book himself some TV time, and announce to the nation: "Well, bad news, people; remember all that stuff we told you about Inncogen three years ago? It's a bust: there were never really any particle-board factories in the pipeline.

"Oh, and as for that Petrotrin scandal, what can I say?"

Can you really imagine Lindsay Gillette getting on a political platform to talk about using insider influence to wangle a telecommunications licence for a family company -no big thing, you understand, just a billion dollars or so worth of potential income; but what's a few miserable dollars between friends? And as for that Beauport business; well!

Would Tim Gopeesingh have called up the Express newsroom one fine day to say, "Hey guys, something funny is going on down at the NWRHA; check it out"? I don't think so. Even if a government official knows of wrong-doing, silence is the watchword. Omertà all the way. And the worst part is that we, the people, don't seem to expect anything different. Maybe we don't think we deserve better.

Bad as all the other cover-ups have been, Roy Augustus' recent (failed) attempt is in some ways the most nauseating. Inncogen, Petrotrin, Gillette, et al are dirty deals that were strictly about money. The poor air quality at the Ibis School, according to TTUTA, has been wreaking havoc on the health of human beings-including those marginalised children that Kamla Persad-Bissessar made such a song-and-dance about "saving".

Augustus is a former principal: you would expect him to be concerned about the welfare of both teachers and students. Yet he wanted to keep this information secret, for fear of it becoming a "political football". This speaks volumes about this government's attitude toward the common man. Poisoning people, one would be forgiven for thinking, is preferable to telling them the truth.

Of course, for most politicians, truth is poison-a potion to be avoided at all costs. Maybe it's time for us to start forcing it down their throats.



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