Dear Editor,
When I was growing up, I often told myself that the most important conversation I would ever
have was the one I had with myself. That inner dialogue shaped whether I shrank or grew, whether
I caved to fear or leaned into possibility. What is true for an individual is just as true for a nation.
The words we use to describe ourselves are not cosmetic. They are constitutive. They tell us who
we are, and who we believe we can be.
As Bahamians, we must be careful about how we speak to ourselves. Too often, we indulge the
vocabulary of despair. Too often, we call ourselves broken. But words are never harmless. They
harden into beliefs. Beliefs set the boundaries of culture. And culture becomes destiny. To
constantly say we are weak is to begin living as if weakness were our natural state.
The evidence from history is overwhelming. John F. Kennedy told Americans in 1962, “We choose
to go to the moon.” He was not describing their capacity at that moment. He was enlarging their
imagination. Winston Churchill, facing nightly bombardments, told the British they would never
surrender. He kept them from yielding to fatalism. Franklin Roosevelt, in the depths of the Great
Depression, told Americans that the only thing they had to fear was fear itself. That sentence broke
the paralysis of despair. Nelson Mandela, after 27 years in prison, could have chosen the language
of vengeance. Instead, he offered the vocabulary of forgiveness, and gave South Africa a chance
to rebuild. Lee Kuan Yew, standing in a vulnerable Singapore, refused to let his people call
themselves poor or helpless. He insisted they describe themselves as disciplined and determined,
and they became what they spoke.
In each case, leaders altered destiny by altering national self-talk. If we are looking for proof that
words matter, the record is conclusive.
And the counterexamples are equally telling. Nations that adopted the language of defeat slid
deeper into ruin. After World War I, Germany spoke of itself as humiliated and betrayed. That
language of despair paved the way for rage and destruction. In the Balkans, the vocabulary of
ancient grievance fueled ethnic war. Where words of bitterness dominated, division and collapse
followed.
I hold the view that The Bahamas is not broken. We are in a season of strain, of tearing and pulling,
as we try to build a society equal to modern demands. That is not collapse. That is the very
condition of growth. The real battlefield is in the Bahamian mind. Will we speak of ourselves as
hopeless, or as heirs of resilience?
We are the sons and daughters of survivors. Our ancestors endured slavery, colonial rule,
hurricanes, scarcity. Yet from that soil they built churches, schools, communities, and a nation.
They created a culture of endurance. From straw vendors and fishermen to farmers and teachers,
ordinary Bahamians produced extraordinary possibility. That is the inheritance we carry.
And here is the harder truth. Nation-building is hard. Europe was devastated by two world wars,
then again faced the collapse of the Soviet Union. Yet it rebuilt into a model of stability and
prosperity. Rwanda descended into genocide and unthinkable loss. Yet within a generation it
rebuilt order and identity. Singapore emerged from poverty with no natural resources and became
one of the world’s most advanced economies. In each case, the path was filled with mistakes,
recalibrations, and painful sacrifice. But the common thread is undeniable. Nations that refused to
speak of themselves as finished or defeated found a way to rise. Nations that surrendered to despair
did not.
I know there will be those who read this and assume it is an attempt to shift the political dial. I
reject that charge. I do not subscribe to tribalistic politics, the kind that makes it impossible to set
aside partisan instincts in order to speak candidly about who we must become. This is not about
party. It is about people. It is about whether Bahamians can discipline ourselves to speak of our
country with honesty about our failings, but also with the pride and confidence that keeps hope
alive.
The way we talk to ourselves matters. If we say that corruption is inevitable, that crime is
unstoppable, that our best days are behind us, then our children will inherit resignation. But if we
speak of ourselves as capable of reform, of compassion, and of greatness, then they will inherit
resilience.
So I leave you with the questions that cannot be escaped. How do you speak to yourself about your
country? Do you describe it as hopeless, or do you remind yourself of what has already been
overcome? Do you see yourself as powerless, or as part of a people who have shown again and
again that endurance is our birthright?
Beyond a reasonable doubt, the evidence is before us. The Bahamas is not finished. It is still
becoming. The verdict depends on the language we choose. Words are not decoration. Words are
destiny. The conversation we Bahamians have with ourselves will decide whether we pass on
resignation or possibility.
Director of Communications
Latrae Rahming
