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Sunday, June 8, 2025

From BBC to Bocas in Port-of-Spain

Per­sis­tence: Ma­ri­na Sa­landy-Brown’s Caribbean lit­er­ary lega­cy

by

22 days ago
20250516

Ma­ri­na Sa­landy-Brown nev­er re­turned to Trinidad for com­fort. When she stepped off the plane in 2004, it was not nos­tal­gia but du­ty that called her back. Her moth­er, Hon­o­ra Marie Sa­landy, was age­ing. She would live past one hun­dred. Ma­ri­na, her mid­dle child, left a decades-long ca­reer at the BBC to care for her.

She had been gone since she was sev­en­teen. Born in Diego Mar­tin, a vil­lage of bush and breeze where chil­dren were still shaped by creeks and Catholi­cism, she had grown up mov­ing be­tween Trinidad's gov­ern­ment agri­cul­tur­al out­posts—Mara­cas, St Joseph, Matelot—where her fa­ther worked as a civ­il ser­vant. The coun­try, new­ly post­colo­nial, was still teth­ered to the past. She left, as many am­bi­tious young women did, not be­cause she want­ed to, but be­cause she need­ed to.

Lon­don gave her a plat­form. A prize-win­ning arts and cur­rent af­fairs pro­duc­er and ed­i­tor of promi­nent pro­grammes like Start the Week and Late Night Live, she be­came a rare thing: a BBC ex­ec­u­tive of Caribbean ori­gin. She gave air­time to voic­es that had long been passed over, in­sist­ing that the Caribbean and the wider post­colo­nial world should not be seen as colour­ful mar­gins but as es­sen­tial con­trib­u­tors to mod­ern in­tel­lec­tu­al life.

Her re­turn to Trinidad was meant to be a pause. But in that pause, some­thing stirred. "There was no place," she said in an in­ter­view, "where we could come to­geth­er around books. Where writ­ers from the re­gion, or in ex­ile, or just emerg­ing, could meet each oth­er. It didn't ex­ist." So she built it.

She called it the Bo­cas Lit Fest, af­ter the Bo­cas del Dragón—the strait be­tween Trinidad and Venezuela where the Caribbean Sea meets the At­lantic. The name held ge­og­ra­phy and dan­ger, myth and move­ment.

The first fes­ti­val was held in 2011. No one ex­pect­ed it to last, cer­tain­ly not in Port of Spain and cer­tain­ly not with­out ini­tial glossy spon­sor­ship.

But she per­sist­ed. She cu­rat­ed it her­self. She cre­at­ed plat­forms for spo­ken word artists, es­say­ists, drama­tists, and those who had nev­er con­sid­ered them­selves writ­ers.

From its first year, Sa­landy-Brown made it clear: Bo­cas would not be a poor cousin to Hay or Ed­in­burgh or a car­ni­val of clichés. It would be rig­or­ous, in­clu­sive, po­lit­i­cal, and lit­er­ary. It would cen­tre Caribbean voic­es, not ex­oti­cise them.

Sa­landy-Brown brought in peo­ple who had nev­er con­sid­ered them­selves part of a lit­er­ary world. Spo­ken-word artists. Ca­lyp­so­ni­ans. Es­say­ists. El­der­ly women writ­ing mem­oirs in note­books. Teenagers from Cou­va who'd nev­er stepped in­side a li­brary. And she made space for them. No Caribbean lit­er­ary fig­ure in the 21st cen­tu­ry has done more to open the doors of the canon.

From the court­yard of the Na­tion­al Li­brary and the Old Fire Sta­tion, she drew strands from Kingston, George­town, Bridgetown, Lon­don, Toron­to, Del­hi, New York, and more. Book­er Prize win­ners like Mar­lon James stood be­side new po­ets read­ing for the first time. Lit­er­ary agents from ma­jor pub­lish­ing hous­es sat through pan­el dis­cus­sions with pri­ma­ry school teach­ers from Mor­vant. From the be­gin­ning, the fes­ti­val was se­ri­ous and de­mo­c­ra­t­ic. Bo­cas be­came a bor­der­less space.

Over the next decade, Bo­cas be­came the An­glo­phone Caribbean's largest and most im­por­tant lit­er­ary fes­ti­val. And Sa­landy-Brown, its ar­chi­tect and stew­ard, es­tab­lished the OCM Bo­cas Prize for Caribbean Lit­er­a­ture, now the re­gion's lead­ing award for fic­tion, non-fic­tion, and po­et­ry. She co-found­ed the Hol­lick Ar­von Prize, which lat­er be­came the John­son and Amoy Achong Prize, of­fer­ing un­pub­lished writ­ers recog­ni­tion and men­tor­ing from in­ter­na­tion­al au­thors and ed­i­tors.

Ma­ri­na Sa­landy Brown's News­day columns re­main about lit­er­ary ad­vo­ca­cy. In one col­umn ti­tled The Ex­pe­ri­ence of Life (News­day, April 2024), she wrote: "Peo­ple are not on­ly strug­gling to make ends meet, they are strug­gling with un­der­stand­ing what it means to be part of a larg­er nar­ra­tive, to be seen and heard. If you don't see your­self in books, you be­gin to for­get you ex­ist."

Else­where, she is even sharp­er: "We are cul­tur­al­ly il­lit­er­ate in many ways. We know too lit­tle about our own writ­ers. We priv­i­lege im­port­ed ideas be­cause we were taught to dis­trust our own."

The Na­tion­al Gas Com­pa­ny of Trinidad and To­ba­go (NGC), recog­nis­ing the pow­er of cul­tur­al in­vest­ment, be­came the ti­tle spon­sor in 2012. From over­seas, the Hol­lick Fam­i­ly Char­i­ta­ble Trust part­nered with the UK's Ar­von Foun­da­tion to sup­port emerg­ing Caribbean writ­ers. Even­tu­al­ly, One Caribbean Me­dia, own­ers of the Trinidad Ex­press and CNC3, com­mit­ted to fund­ing the re­gion's pre­mier lit­er­ary prize.

In 2011, the in­au­gur­al OCM Bo­cas Prize was award­ed to Derek Wal­cott for White Egrets. That mo­ment crys­tallised the se­ri­ous­ness of in­tent. Since then, the prize has gone to Earl Lovelace (2012), Monique Rof­fey (2013), Robert An­toni (2014), Vladimir Lu­cien (2015), Olive Se­nior (2016), Kei Miller (2017), Jen­nifer Rahim (2018), Kevin Ado­nis Browne (2019), Richard Georges (2020), Can­isia Lu­brin (2021), Ce­leste Mo­hammed (2022), Ayan­na Lloyd Ban­wo (2023), Safiya Sin­clair (2024), and Myr­i­am J.A. Chancy (2025). Fi­nal­ists in each genre cat­e­go­ry—fic­tion, po­et­ry, and non-fic­tion—are pub­licly ho­n­oured and wel­comed in­to the Bo­cas cir­cle.

In 2025, the Bo­cas Lit Fest opened with a trib­ute to Earl Lovelace at 90. A lec­ture was de­liv­ered by Pro­fes­sor Emer­i­tus Ken­neth Ram­c­hand.

Free­town Col­lec­tive per­formed. The trib­ute co­in­cid­ed with the re­lease of Lovelace's new po­et­ry col­lec­tion, The Be­gin­ning of a Jour­ney.

Sa­landy Brown has car­ried a lit­er­ary fes­ti­val, a vi­sion of Caribbean dig­ni­ty and ex­cel­lence, on her shoul­ders. She has read sub­mit­ted work for prizes and set up in­de­pen­dent, dis­tin­guished pan­els of judges.

Recog­ni­tion came. In 2005, Sa­landy Brown was award­ed an Hon­orary Doc­tor­ate (DLitt) from the Uni­ver­si­ty of West­min­ster. In 2013, the Uni­ver­si­ty of the West In­dies fol­lowed suit. In 2020, she was elect­ed an Hon­orary Fel­low of the Roy­al So­ci­ety of Lit­er­a­ture. That same year, Chile award­ed her the Fer­di­nand Mag­el­lan Award for con­tri­bu­tions to the arts. Two years lat­er, her coun­try gave her the Hum­ming­bird Medal (Sil­ver) for her cul­tur­al ser­vice. When asked about it, she replied sim­ply: "I am grate­ful. But the work con­tin­ues."

Since 2022, the fes­ti­val's di­rec­tor­ship has for­mal­ly passed to Nicholas Laugh­lin, a long­time col­lab­o­ra­tor who has shaped Bo­cas's lit­er­ary and ed­i­to­r­i­al di­rec­tion from the be­gin­ning. He works close­ly with po­et and crit­ic Shiv­a­nee Ram­lochan and a com­mit­ted team to guide the fes­ti­val for­ward.

Sa­landy- Brown has not re­lin­quished the fes­ti­val's soul, on­ly broad­ened the cir­cle of its care­tak­ers.

As Pres­i­dent of the Board of Di­rec­tors Ma­ri­na Sa­landy-Brown re­mains deeply in­volved pro­vid­ing strate­gic over­sight and en­sur­ing the in­tegri­ty of its mis­sion.

What she (and the Bo­cas team, now ably led by Fes­ti­val Di­rec­tor Nicholas Laugh­lin) most need now is not more ac­co­lades but for the coun­try and its cor­po­rate class to step up and sup­port what Bo­cas rep­re­sents: not a one-off event, but a vi­tal in­sti­tu­tion sus­tain­ing the very fab­ric of Caribbean so­ci­ety. "A lit­er­ary fes­ti­val is not a lux­u­ry," she has said. "It is part of the in­fra­struc­ture of who we are and who we might be­come."

For years, Sa­landy-Brown man­aged spread­sheets, wrote fund­ing pro­pos­als, and did the of­ten-dispir­it­ing and tough work of ask­ing the cor­po­rate world to in­vest in the com­mod­i­ty with the high­est long-term re­turns—the hearts and minds of a na­tion - through lit­er­a­ture.

The al­ready on-board spon­sors recog­nise that in a coun­try grap­pling with vi­o­lence and il­lit­er­a­cy, sup­port­ing lit­er­a­ture means de­mo­c­ra­t­i­cal­ly giv­ing the voice­less a voice and ul­ti­mate­ly ush­er­ing the na­tion's soul to­wards pro­duc­tiv­i­ty and pros­per­i­ty.

More spon­sors are re­quired to keep this mo­men­tum go­ing, which some will equate with the very sur­vival of this na­tion st.

Sa­landy-Brown told News­day in May 2025: "When we start­ed, peo­ple said, 'A lit­er­ary fes­ti­val? But no­body reads in Trinidad.' I said, 'It's not true! Peo­ple do read and they do wrie, but no­body's giv­en them per­mis­sion to put their hands up.'"

Years ago, she said, her garbage col­lec­tor rang the bell and said he wrote po­et­ry. She gave him the mic. He read.

And Ma­ri­na, as al­ways, stood slight­ly off­stage, lis­ten­ing. Tak­ing it in. Hand­ing over, qui­et­ly, what she had spent her life build­ing.

Ira Math­ur is a free­lance jour­nal­ist and a colum­nist for the Trinidad Guardian. Math­ur is the au­thor of Love the Dark Days, which won the 2023 OCM Bo­cas Prize for Non-Fic­tion.

Web­site: www.iras­room.org

Au­thor en­quiries: iras­room@gmail.com


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